Saruman of many Devices
by Saphroneth
Summary: Alone of every power in Middle-Earth, Saruman innovates, notably gunpowder. But he lost. What if he had a little help?  Actually a cross-over between LOTR and the General series by David Drake. Uses both book and movie elements.
1. Chapter 1

Saruman the White, the leader of the Wizards and custodian of Nan Curunir, looked again at the simple orb of dark crystal in his central chamber.

"Palantír…" his normally oratorical voice murmured softly. A simple word, but such a tempting one. Their whole purpose was to communicate and to observe, was it not? That was why they were placed at such places by the Dunedaín. Amon Sûl, Annúminas, Elostirion, Minas Arnor, Minas Ithil, Osgiliath… and his own, at Orthanc.

Of course, now three of them were lost, to the sea or in some unknown battlefield, and another was in the hands of Sauron. Only three remained in their original locations – well, that and the Master stone, too far from the land to reach with any ease.

He had already used his own Palantír to learn what he could of Sauron's plans. As the White Wizard, he was strong enough to use the seeing stone without being corrupted by the Shadow… was he not? Yes, he must be. It was the nature of those plans that truly… inspired him, to report less than all he saw to his brethren. After all, they might act rashly, change those plans and then all he had done would come to naught.

As it was, he had the most likely plan to succeed of any of the Wise, when it came to the designs of Sauron. He would stealthily act as a rogue agent, appearing to further those same plans until the time came to break away, at the time it would do maximum harm.

And Sauron would not know the time he would do so.

Perhaps he should see what had changed since his last use. Yes, that was the best course of action.

His mind made up, he strode powerfully over to the orb and snatched the cover off, abruptly resenting every moment he was not in communion with the Palantír.

Too suddenly. His objective teetered for a moment on the edge of its' mounting, then fell onto the pillar top, rolled for a second and hit the floor with a resounding crash.

The need for the Palantír vanished like a dream upon waking, concern for the ancient, irreplaceable artefact in its stead. Crouching, he took the object and lifted it up to the light.

Unlike when he usually used it, there were no gently roiling clouds. Instead, a crazy patchwork of images flickered in it. A great eye – but for the merest fraction of a second, before becoming a strange and fantastical city stretching as far as the eye could see, then a field of stars, a flower, some monstrous fish-like organism… the Palantír was clearly somehow broken, but what he saw was beyond all he had imagined.

Except his dreams. Those strange dreams that all the Wizards had reported at one time or another, fragments of their full Maiar awareness leaking through their mortal forms. Gandalf spoke of flight and air, Radagast of growing things, the lost two – who it still felt painful to recall – of the hunt, and he himself of strange devices.

Perhaps this was a sign from his lord. He took the seeing-stone in both hands and focused his power, calling on all he could to calm the currents in the Palantír. To make it show him what he desired to see, much as he had struggled before.

There was a palpable feeling of release, and the cracks in the stone vanished. Instead of a cacophony of images flashing across the surface of the stone, there was a simple mirror surface.

Then he was floating with his own image reflecting back at him – as if he was somehow _inside_ the Palantír. This matched the descriptions he had read of the most intense uses of the artefact, but it had always before escaped him, perhaps as he was not officially designated as its' user.

**Observe.**

Images flashed before him. Complete scenes now, with time to take them in, and recognizable at that. An army of armoured warriors, marching out of an unfamiliar, industrial Isengard to his resounding command.

**Observe.**

The stronghold of Helm's Deep, across the Gap of Rohan from where he was right now – or was he? – under siege. Escalades mounted against the walls by the black armoured warriors bearing the white hand, and men of Rohan – backed by Elves, for a wonder – holding the Deeping Wall.

The view focused in on a spiked iron ball in a small culvert, and one of the warriors (no, _soldiers_), bereft of armour and clearly stronger and taller than a man, running forward with a torch.

A great flash of fire, and the wall… exploded. There was no other word for it.

**Observe.**

Thousands of Rohirrim, charging down a slope, with Gandalf in a white cloak in the front rank.

**Observe.**

Isengard devastated by floods, with Tree-shepherds picking over the remains.

**Observe.**

Himself, bereft of all but the tiniest shadow of his power, brought low by Hobbits and stabbed in the back by an underling.

**Observe.**

Orthanc once more, but so weathered away by time that it was nearly unrecognizable. Humanoid figures fought in front of the gate, both with nothing more sophisticated than a stone axe.

**The decline is inevitable. Each age is of greater entropy than the last. Though it will take time, the situation will eventually decay to a point where all technology and civilization is lost. It will be upwards of thirty thousand years before the climb upward begins again.**

"Who or what are you?" Saruman called into the mirrored stillness. It was like… seeing the proof that all his work would come to nothing.

**My remit is civilization. The rise of organization to a stable platform.**

"But if this is what waits for the world, if this is the future, then how is this any use?"

**Not the future. Only a prediction using stochastic variables. It can be changed, if the variables are altered. You are in the most parlous position.**

**Observe.**

The view returned, focused in on the metal device which had rent the wall asunder.

It was clearly crude, constructed hastily without much care.

**Observe.**

The image of a Trebuchet, like those used by Gondor. Wood and metal creaked, at the limit of their capabilities as it hurled a rock the size of a small house.

**The former is at the very nadir of possibilities for the materials it uses. The other is at the apex. Yet the single use of the former destroyed the wall, the latter requires many uses.**

Saruman grasped at the distinction. "So what you mean is that the, the fire-device, is able to be improved?"

**Correct. Other worlds have done so.**

**Observe.**

A metal tube, closed at one end. A bag of the fire-powder went in, then a marble ball. A man touched fire to a hole at one end, and with a mighty _bang_ the ball went flying, far faster than any catapult shot.

**Observe.**

The tube was more finely crafted, though not by much. This time, the ball was smaller and smoke sputtered from some kind of slow torch. It was sent forwards much the same by the, the tube-

**Cannon.**

By the cannon, and then it exploded in mid air.

"That was less effective than before."

**Against buildings, yes.**

Somehow, the stark practicality in that statement was more chilling than Sauron could ever be.

**I optimize the world-line of civilization, Saruman. Not the world-line of any particular being.**

**Observe.**

The ball was metal, this time, and flew faster still. But instead of landing against a wall, it skipped through the serried ranks of a unit of Orcs – by the looks of them, the Orcs of the misty mountains known as "Goblins".

The carnage was terrible.

**Grazing shot. Much more effective than ballista or catapults. Battlefield artillery.**

**Observe.**

This time, instead of an iron ball, hundreds of small lead balls went into the cannon. They spread like the breath of a dragon, and were about as effective against the Goblins.

**Observe.**

* * *

><p>It felt like days had passed when the intelligence – it called itself "Central", it seemed – released the hold on his mind. There were hundreds of scenes, dozens of devices, and several things that needed doing as soon as possible.<p>

For one, he needed a disciplined army. One with the loyalty to follow him and not turn the weapons against themselves, and without the pre-existing methods of older armies.

"Those servants of mine from the vision…"

**Uruk-hai. Orc and Man.**

"Yes. I have had some ideas along those lines already – I must hurry."

**Observe.**

Isengard industrializing, wood feeding fires and the machinery of engineering spreading over the surface.

The Ents, the tree-shepherds, tearing it to shreds.

Saruman himself throwing fire and fury into the advancing trees, rallying crossbow soldiers, until a huge rock came flying towards him and the vision mercifully concluded.

The wizard stumbled. "Does that mean that if I act too soon, then all is for naught?"

**If signs of industry become visible in Nan Curunir, probability approaches unity that attack will come within two years.**

"Visible… what of underground? If I channel the smoke through a gallery into the misty mountains, it could pass unnoticed."

**An effective strategy, though it will not be possible to train many troops below ground.**

Saruman nodded absently. "What I need is _time._ Time to get this fire-powder stocked up, time to gather lead, brass, iron, wood, and time to build all the machines and arms I need."

**Agreed. Observe.**

The serried ranks of the army of the white hand – _his_ army – marching across the Gap. This time, the projection paused and focused in on their weapons.

The armour was plates of black metal, articulated with leather swords were simple hunks of metal, crudely stamped into shape. The pike tips were poor quality. The crossbows were made with bent metal, and their bolts similarly irregular.

**Cast iron. Easy to make, but brittle. Too many troops to arm them all well.**

"But if the army were smaller?"

**Observe.**

The view this time was from above, showing the entire southern half of the Gap. Small local forces of Rohirrim swirled in and out of range of the Isengard host, casting their spears and felling the Uruks who had to keep up the march towards Helm's Deep.

By the time they reached it, there were too few to attempt an escalade against such a well defended fortress.

**Observe.**

This time the Uruk force moved slower, using crossbow fire to kill the Rohirrim units as they came in. But it was expensive and required a profligate use of crossbow bolts.

When the force reached Helm's Deep, there were too few crossbow bolts left to suppress the Elven archers, and the attempt on the Deeping Wall was called off.

**Observe the alternative, but the last projection is common to all three.**

The Uruk force detached flanking units and approached Helm's Deep at full speed, reaching it only minutes after the Sindar battalion. This assault unit was small, but had better morale than the first two projections and successfully demolished the Deeping Wall. However, their numbers were insufficient to also attack the Hornburg gate, and precious minutes were lost bringing up a ram to use on the inner stronghold.

The final vision showed the huge army of Rohan, which had been able to concentrate with Gandalf's aid, riding down the numerically smaller Uruk force and breaking the siege.

"So… so. These fire-powder-"

**Gun powder.**

"Gun powder weapons are essential, then?"

**Pike and shot is effective against most more primitive armies. Observe.**

Blocks of pike troops, like hedges of spear tips in all directions, with small numbers of – hand cannon? – troops in between. Cavalry charged, and were warded off by the spear points and smashed by the hand cannon.

The projection flickered, this time showing men with tower shields and swords. Gondor troops.

The pikes once more kept the men at a distance, and the volleys of cannon fire smashed into them.

**In this case, since good sword soldiers can eliminate pikemen with use of manoeuvre or attacks on the pikes, co-operation is essential.**

One final projection. This time, the pike troops dying under a hail of arrows, the inaccurate hand-cannons useless against them.

The wizard scowled. "What can be done about archers?"

**Very little, at currently examined technology level. More improvement needed. Rifles. Expanding bullets.**

"Show me," Saruman commanded.

* * *

><p>"Good." Saruman said quietly. "Very good. This batch is wrought-iron?"<p>

"Yes, lord Wizard." The crafts-man replied. "Much better quality. Using charcoal in the furnace was a masterful idea – and blowing air through it seems to have made it stay molten for far longer than I would expect."

"Quite. A pity that it only produces batches, though." Saruman mused. "Still, very good. Test it with coal, and then with coal that has been prepared like wood is for charcoal. If we can fuel our industry with the products of the earth alone, it will help our goal of concealment."

He turned to another of the smiths he had employed from the former lands of Rhovanion. "Could you make this wrought-iron into a tube, sealed at one end?"

"Depends on the size, lord." The man said. "If you want a small one, it could be done simply with a number of iron staves joined on the inside, and bound like a barrel. For something much larger, I'd need to machine it. Cast a great block of iron and then bore it out."

"Attempt both."

**Observe.**

Two cannon. One was loaded with an iron ball, and then fired it out at a wall. The shot went high.

**Large circular probability error. Windage. Tumbling.**

The second one was loaded. This one had a ball with a sort of seam around the edge, and loaded much slower.

But when it fired, it was with a much greater speed – and it hit within feet of the target it was aimed at.

**Standardized bore diameter. Rifling imparts gyroscopic spin. Greater accurate range.**

The vision faded, and Saruman turned back to that smith. "Actually, a better idea suggests itself. Create a sheet of iron, an inch or two thick, then roll it into a cylinder. Add attachment points on a hoop on the outside of the cylinder, heat-shrink it into place. And add the seal later, but bore spiral grooves down it first."

The various men were now all looking at him. One spoke. "My lord, if you don't mind my asking… why?"

"All in good time, my faithful servants. Now, what about considering the use of gears to alter the power supply from waterwheels?"

* * *

><p><strong>This will not work. The low carbon steel you are using in the barrels is the hardest material available to you. Boring the grooves for the rifling will destroy the borer.<strong>

Saruman sighed, watching the images play out before his eyes. Estimates, routes of supplies – charcoal from Eriador, sulphur from deposits in Nurn and caravanned around the north of Mordor via Rhun, saltpetre from sewage works…

"What would you suggest, then? This steel is barely more expensive than cast iron, much less so than conventional wrought. And bronze is much harder to obtain."

He took his gaze from the Palantír, now almost unnecessary since the deeper link with the sentience on the other end had been formed, and let it roam the chamber. His staff lay against one wall, beside the cabinet of various treasures he had gathered in his long research. Two of the Dwarven Rings of Power – which he had planned on destroying, but that plan had been ruined by Gandalf's manoeuvre to deny Sauron of such as Smaug the Red. Dragonfire might not have been capable of melting the One Ring, but the slightly lesser Rings might have proved vulnerable.

Although, the heat of a blast furnace might prove efficacious. Something to consider, for until the One Ring was his-

**Destroyed. It is an agent of entropy, inciting arguments and drawing power from the others to feed it and Sauron. An energy sink.**

"You know this, for sure and certain?"

**It is extrapolation. But the nine kings of men suffered its' effects, and the results are obvious.**

"Yes, the Blind Sorcerer, the Witch-King… they barely exist in the physical realm any more. Very well, we will leave this for later."

Central subsided, and he continued looking. Next there were a trio of helmets, some armour and weapons, and a personal banner – relics he had found on some long-ago battlefield in the Anduin Vale, the very place (or so it seemed) where Isildur had been ambushed and died.

The final item in that particular case was the Star of Elendil, perhaps the single most precious item he had found there. It was a poor second to the One Ring, but…

"Central," he asked, ideas blossoming, "Would mithril alloy be harder than low carbon steel?"

**Insufficient data. Mithril unknown except from your memories.**

Saruman took the Star, and removed the bright diamond from its mithril backing with the point of an ancient dagger. "A shame to destroy such a beautiful artefact, but needs must." Then he took the helmets, good old Númenor work – and hence possessed of a mithril alloy crest. The armour was mundane, but the rings… they were made of mithril themselves, and pure at that.

And the Rings… they were mithril, as well. How deliciously ironic.

* * *

><p>"Look at that…" the smith breathed, as the borer reached the end of its' run. Six grooves ran down the barrel, grooves cut in the hardest material he had ever worked on, by a tiny edging of the silver-steel material on the borer teeth.<p>

"Excellent." Saruman proclaimed, clasping the man's shoulder for a moment. "Now, seal off one end-"

**The one furthest from you.**

"-That one. And get a ball of metal made to the specifications of the tube diameter."

He hastened to obey.

_Central,_ Saruman thought, _Why that end?_

**The lands twist slightly faster on the other one. Acceleration in speed of spin is useful, but deceleration is extremely detrimental.**

_Then shouldn't we try to ensure that all the barrels have an increase in spin speed towards the end?_

**Such a task would be barely within your technological capabilities, and is unnecessary in any case. The natural irregularities in boring produce one end twisting faster.**

_I see. So that one can be the open end._

**Indeed. Prolonged use will eventually wear out the barrels, but with low carbon steel the effect is reduced. It is more important not to overreach.**

**Observe.**

A battle – no, a war – where both sides deployed weapons utterly fantastical to even the technologically-inclined Wizard. They were using weapons similar in concept to the cannon he had been shown, though clearly at the other end of their development as much as a longbow differed from a dart, or a trebuchet from a thrown rock.

The view focused on a flying machine. Unlike a dragon or fell beast, the wings were fixed, and it pulled itself through the air by… fanning air behind it? Saruman struggled to understand.

The other used them as well, but tried to do better. Strange objects that flew and spat fire, far faster than their opponents, but so much harder to make that the second side, despite having nearly the same amount of resources, was overwhelmed by numbers.

**Observe.**

A few hundred Uruks, carrying astonishingly advanced versions of the handguns he had seen. They had no flint or steel, no slow match, not even the 'percussion cap' he had been shown. The soldiers simply pointed them, held down the levers, and they spat lead shot across vast distances, cutting down the Orcs of the Mordor army arrayed against them like wheat to a scythe.

But there were only a few hundred of them, and they were swiftly overwhelmed once their ammunition ran out.

_I understand. I will progress the technology as far as it will go with simple methods, and improve them as far as they will go until the war starts._

* * *

><p>Saruman reached out towards the Warg in its' cage. It snapped at him, and he flinched back.<p>

"Impressive. This one almost waited until I was in reach. Continue, I want a breed which will listen to orders as well as a horse or dog."

"And why's that?" Anuz asked, the chief orc among his warg-kennels.

"Because if I can have infantry able to move at the speed of a Warg, I can move small units to places it would normally take them five times as long to reach."

Anuz' face cleared. "I see, lord. Only, why infantry?"

"Rohan have cavalry that no other can match. I simply plan on fighting them on the terms of infantry."

* * *

><p>"So if we do this, the breech can be opened by the same lever that closes it, and the trigger cocks back and then releases the hammer." The craftsman demonstrated, working the model he had made through the process. "It should only take a few seconds, and it means there's no need for ramming the bullet home."<p>

Saruman frowned. He hadn't even assigned this as a problem, thinking that his workers should get used to the idea of gunpowder before he started skipping the entire concept of a muzzle-loader.

"Good work." The Wizard finally said. "The only problem that I see is that the way the back of the breech is open. That will cause back-blast, and make the gun inoperable in the rain."

He shrugged. "Rain problem's not much worse than a musket."

"Yes, true. But the back blast is going to be the problem anyway."

**Percussion cap. Mercury fulminate.**

_Tell me more._

**Observe.**

Quicksilver, poured into a mixing vessel. Something else-

**Aqua Fortis.**

-added to the mix, and stirred until they dissolved. Another, colourless liquid

**Ethanol. Pure alcohol.**

-then went in, and the results were carefully collected.

**It explodes when struck hard.**

_Then this could be used for explosive shells as well?_

**Yes. Now, cartridges.**

**Observe.**

A pointed piece of lead, with brass wrapped around it and extending past the back of the bullet proper. Inside was mercury fulminate in small quantities, and black powder.

The hammer struck the back of the chamber, transmitting the force through a solid bar to the base of the cartridge, and firing the bullet.

Most of the brass remained in the chamber, but when the lever was pulled to open it again it tumbled out.

Saruman opened his eyes again. He'd developed the habit of closing them when communing with Central, and as a result everyone in his employ recognized it as indicating intense thought.

"I have a few suggestions for you, regarding the ammunition. And you get double pay this month, for a truly inspired solution."

* * *

><p>"This is called a Rifle." Saruman explained to the first ten Uruk-Hai he had created, led by Lurtz. "It is a new weapon, for a new power and a new people."<p>

So saying, he passed it to the human craftsman, who demonstrated its' operation slowly. The opening of the chamber, fitting in the first round, closing the chamber, raising it to the eye, flipping up the simple ladder sight to the appropriate setting, and pulling the trigger.

The sharp retort and puff of smoke rocked the Uruks back on their heels, but to them this was just how it was. They were young, and had not yet begun thinking in wrong-headed ways.

A small splash of lead appeared at the other end of the chamber, around a foot from the target.

"Hm. Not very good over barely two hundred yards." The Wizard commented lightly.

"Sorry, my lord, I'm not used to the kick." So saying, the craftsman opened the chamber, ejecting the spent round and replacing it with another one, before repeating the shot. This one was much closer to the centre dot.

"What would you say is the fastest the rifle could be fired?"

"This version? Ooh, about fifteen times a minute, ten if you want the time to aim. That's with a lot of practice, though."

* * *

><p>"And, you see, I think that if we were able to make bursting charges for the big siege mortars, it might help in sweeping battlements clear of enemy soldiers."<p>

"An interesting point." Saruman agreed. "But I think that using percussion explosive shells for that is enough, especially from one of the siege mortars. There is also the risk of premature explosion with a timed cartridge, while the percussion triggers only detonate on impact. Look into packing in additional drop shot around the explosive charge in such a shell, though, to see if the benefit is worth the reduction in range and power."

Lurtz moved a few of the counters around on the model of Helm's Deep. "The big problem with taking a place like this would be that wide open rear and flank. Too easy to be trapped, especially with the time it takes to put the guns in place. The fortress itself is pretty much a joke, except for the tunnels in the Hornburg, the galleries dug back into the cliff."

"Agreed." Uglúk said, pointing to a raised area on the field in front of the fortress. "Is this accurate?"

"It is." Saruman assured him.

"Because if I have this right, then a howitzer here could throw solid shot into the doors of the Hornburg itself."

**He is correct.**

"You have a good eye." Saruman praised. "Though the difficulty is still getting them there. Anuz, how goes the Warg breeding program?"

"I have the somewhat tractable beasts you wanted for mounted infantry, lord, and they're being kept near the testing range, so hopefully they'll be used to guns by maturity. No good draft animals yet."

"At worst, we will use horse or oxen." Saruman then swept his lieutenants with a level gaze. "Do any other issues present themselves?"

"We're still working on how to prevent extraction jams. The brass gets soft enough on a hot chamber that it tears, that's the problem." Mauhúr spoke. "Firing in volley helps, because it means the faster loaders give the gun an extra second or so to cool down, but it's going to be a consistent issue."

"Would water-cooling the outside of the barrels help?" Lugdush asked him.

"I've not tried it, it could. But it would be a bit unwieldy."

"True. Perhaps just a change of tactical emphasis, then."

Saruman smiled thinly as the discussion picked up. These were _his_ people, and they were doing what no power had done on Middle-Earth for hundreds of years. Innovating.

"My lord!" A human voice came from the door.

Saruman turned to see one of the Dunlending men he employed as servants on the surface. "What is it?"

"A lone man approaches. He wears no armour, only a grey cloak."

"Gandalf." The White Wizard took his staff from the wall, and set off for the stairs. "Carry on."

The conversation, which had stalled while the news arrived, began to flow again, the Uruks discussing the possibility of troops ascending the mountains outside Helm's Deep to set up sniping positions.

* * *

><p>"Sauron's spirit is still anchored to this world, Gandalf. Unlike the Balrogs, or… other Maiar," both dropped their gaze for a moment in memory of the brothers, "he can regain his power from even a defeat of the kind he suffered at the close of the Second Age. He may not be physical yet, but that is merely a hindrance."<p>

Saruman sat, one hand on his staff. "A great eye. Lidless, wreathed in flame. It can see all… or nearly all. Even the greatest spy, the strongest scryer must know where to look. But he has begun gathering his armies, poised to sweep across all of middle-earth and find the One Ring by force. Even now, the Nine have crossed the River Isen, as riders in black." And a pity it had been that he wasn't ready to face Sauron openly – to take all nine of the Nazgul's Rings would have been a great coup.

An interesting scientific test: what would happen if the One was the only ring left?

Gandalf looked saddened. "How do you know all this?"

"I have seen it."

* * *

><p>"Using a Palantír?" Gandalf asked, not seeming to believe it. "Of all the irresponsible… they are not all accounted for!"<p>

Saruman smiled slightly. "Two are sunk, one lost, one here, one in Minas Tirith, one near the Grey Havens, and one taken by Sauron."

"Then he does have one? He could be watching!"

"Do not worry." Saruman swept the cloth off his Palantír, revealing the mirror surface that Central's presence had left it with. "The orb is altered. It no longer connects to the others."

"You can't know that."

"No, I can't… but neither can you know that you are safe to wear that ring of yours."

Gandalf flinched before he could catch himself.

"I wondered, you know, why you did not destroy the One Ring when you had the chance. There was Smaug, last of the great Dragons, and the One Ring, in the same mountain – the same room! And yet, you did not even try. Did it not cross your mind that the Ring of Fire and the fire of a dragon could potentially harm the Ring? Dragonfire can certainly melt rock. And yet, despite that chance, you could not destroy a single Ring. I, Gandalf, have destroyed two."

Saruman then changed tack. "But there is a greater problem, even, than the work of Sauron. He is less powerful now than he was the last time he rose to power, but yet the prospects of the free peoples are worse. Why is that?"

He began striding about the room. "I will tell you why. All the greatest glories of Middle-Earth lie far in the past, further back the greater you look. The only time in the last two Ages that anything has improved was the influence of the Rings of Power themselves, and even that is fading thanks to Sauron's power. But now! Now, there is the chance for a new power to rise, to end this cycle of despair."

Gandalf looked wary. "And how?"

"A new power, a new people. My Uruk-hai are inventive, smart and strong. They are thinking – they improve, Gandalf! Like no other people have done since the genesis of the Sun! They are greater followers of Aule than any other… and at the same time, the others in my employ do the same things! When was the last time you heard of an invention, Gandalf? A better kind of bow from the Elves, who spend all their time pining for the days that have gone without trying to really live? A larger axe from the Dwarves? A longer sword, from the Men? Or perhaps a change from one way of doing things to another? Even Narsil is kept around in Rivendell, a sword that has been broken for three millennia."

The colour had gradually drained from Gandalf's face. Now, he swung his staff, and pushed Saruman back against a wall.

"When did you abandon reason, Saruman? Consorting with Orcs!"

"They were Elves once." Saruman released his staff, and it fell to his feet pointing at Gandalf. A pulse of force emanated from it and upset the Grey wanderer's footing.

"Man now is as degraded compared to the ancients of Númenor as Orcs to Elves. Or is that why you pay such attention to the Heir of Isildur? Are lesser men beneath you?"

Glamdring shone for a moment in Gandalf's hand, then half a dozen Uruk-hai broke the door down with rifles levelled and bayonets attached.

"Lord Saruman!" Lugdush cried, and snapped the simple trigger safety onto his rifle before coming over. "Are you alright?"

"Just a few bruises, I think."

Gandalf seemed in a state of shock at actually seeing Orcs inside the fortress of Isengard.

"Sir? Shall we kill him?" Lurtz asked, rifle pointed between the eyes of the old wizard.

"No, place him on the star-mount." Saruman replied, striding over and taking Gandalf's staff.

As soon as Lurtz, Mauhúr and Gandalf were gone up the stairs, Saruman chuckled.

"He didn't seem as concerned as he should have done."

"He probably wondered what was wrong with our spears." Lugdush shrugged, sniggering.

* * *

><p>"Everyone!"<p>

Saruman's trained orator's voice rippled throughout the cavernous spaces under Isengard. "We are found out. Not by treachery, or by spywork, but by camaraderie and strength of dedication – of which I am proud. But regardless, the result is the same."

"We have lost our shield of anonymity, but nor do we need to hide any longer! From today, we can work on the surface, and begin full production of the weapons and tools we spent the last five years building."

The speech rose to a crescendo. "A new power rises, and now we show ourselves!"

Cheers rang in the confined space.

* * *

><p>"Yes, the entire outer wall should be lined with Fougasse. Naphtha, mainly." Uglúk said, directing a team of Common Orcs. "And I want some of the big mortars refitted as carronades, use a modular base-plate big enough to slot them into the battlements. Anyone coming up to the walls is going to get a storm of canister or solid shot, even if they have the equipment for an escalade."<p>

A few of the second-generation Uruks followed him, watching as he explained siege weaponry by example.

* * *

><p>Mauhúr, below, was running the first unit of Warg-mounted infantry through drill. "Now, the next manoeuvre is to deploy from column into line of battle, without countermarching. I want everyone to be able to do it without slowing down, because when we end up fighting Rohirrim they won't be nice and give you five minutes to get yourselves sorted out, will they?"<p>

One of the riders raised a hand. "Won't countermarching mean we end up moving away from the enemy?"

"Not necessarily." Mauhúr answered. "How do you think we'd go about stopping to shoot them if we were falling back?"

Some of them nodded in realization at this. "We'd do this same drill, but turn around at the end?"

"Right! Good to see there's some grey matter up there."

* * *

><p>Lugdush frowned. "I am disappointed. Three of you forgot to reset the sights."<p>

The offenders shuffled their feet.

"Fortunately, it seems to have been because you were trying to fire as fast as possible. And as it happens, there is a trick for that. Aim down a body length from the enemy, at this range difference. Not for Trolls, though! Trolls, you aim down an arm length, which should put you shooting at the point between their feet because a Troll does not notice being shot in the head!"

He leaned in closer. "I think it's because they replaced all the brain with bone. Of course, that's fairly common among our enemies. Else, why'd they be fighting us?"

* * *

><p>Lurtz pointed at three members of the skirmisher unit. "You are dead. And so are you, and so are you."<p>

He then gestured up slope, where an Orc pulled off the Elven cloak he was wearing.

"Elven skirmishers are as stealthy as our little friend up there, except that they can shoot you while they hide. You have to be better at hiding, and to spot them first. Only the rest managed even the first part of that."

* * *

><p>Ternak shook his head. "No, we can't use carts. They're too slow and unwieldy. It has to be a beast of burden that can carry what we need as packs."<p>

"Yurgs?" volunteered one of his subordinates.

"Good plan." The great beasts were used by Mordor as pack and food animals, though there were none northwest of the Black Gate. "How do we get hold of some?"

"I think we can sneak a couple through Rhovanion, and then breed our own. That'll take months, though. Until then, perhaps the new Warg breeds?"

"Noted."

* * *

><p>"We need these kettles to make the water clean. Disease kills more people than swords or bows in most wars." Skara shuddered. She was assigned to handle the medical matters of organizing the Army of the White Hand. "I hate to think of it, really."<p>

"But what about on the move?"

"One of the tenets is that we march from nine to four, then we set up camp. We can do it then. And make sure we have enough iodine powder as well, come to think of it. The lord Wizard says it helps make water and wounds both clean."

* * *

><p>"All right, you lot." Oglo barked out. "Our job is to find out where the enemy is, what they're doing and how loudly they yell when their valuables go missing!"<p>

His unit contained some of the best common Orcs with the rifle, as well as those of the new Uruks with vague notions of stealth and good initiative. They would eventually be given Wargs, but for now they were practising infiltration drills.

"First order of business is how to set up the heliograph. This needs to be done quickly, signal sent quickly, and down again quickly, before one of the other side thinks of looking above their feet for once!"

* * *

><p>Marek and Raza shouted to their squads, exhorting them to work faster, dig quicker, and set up their own camp properly, damn it!<p>

The two were both line infantry types, like Lugdush, but were currently on the field entrenchment rotation.

"Come on, you slaggards!" Marek shouted. "You don't think a half finished camp is going to stop three thousand charging horsemen from trying to rearrange your faces, do you?"

"Don't let them beat us to it!" Raza yelled to her own unit. "If there's anyone having a short, sharp meeting with the horselords, it's not us!"

* * *

><p>Kerkú glanced across at Sharku, his NCO. The grizzled old Orc had experience raiding Rohan for decades, but was adapting to the new realities fairly quickly.<p>

Sharku gave him a grin, and urged his mount forward to berate an unlucky Uruk. "No, no, no! The whole point of the pistol is that you can have it in one hand! If you're aiming at a target you need both hands for and you're on your Warg, get off! Or charge them so you can use your sabre instead!"

* * *

><p>"Central, what else is there?"<p>

**Other weapons systems often presuppose higher industry.**

"Often?" Saruman stared into the depths of the Palantír. "So there are some which do not?"

**Useful avenues include starshells and signal rockets at this point in time.**

**Observe.**

One of the field encampments the Uruks set up on the move. The sky overhead was dark with cloud, and only the occasional star shone through.

A picket trooper got cut off with a truncated yell, and his Ward snarled before being killed by spears.

The well-trained Uruks stood to the walls hurriedly, but with no light to shoot by their Rohirrim enemies were able to get among them without taking the punishing volley fire of a prepared unit.

They stood their ground, and bled, and died, and eventually, pushed beyond endurance, they broke and ran.

**Observe.**

Armies of Rohan and Gondor investing Isengard. They had encircled it beyond cannon-shot, trapping the Armies of the Hand inside Nan Curunir.

**Observe.**

As the light dimmed in the sky, a concerted rush began from the Human lines. Some Uruks tried to man the walls, but were so weak with hunger they could barely lift their weapons.

**Observe.**

Sauron's armies conquering all of Middle-Earth.

**Observe.**

Two orcs, fighting one another with stone axes before the steady gaze of the incarnate Sauron. As he watched, one was victorious, and offered up the body of the vanquished to his lord.

**Your forces must not have an easy weak point. Starshells will enable them to fight after dark. Their vision is good enough for melee combat, but not for gunfire.**

"Show me."

**Observe.**

The same attack as before, but as soon as the Rohirrim rush began, a flat _thump_ heralded the rise of a mortar shell into the sky. A few seconds passed as the Uruks manned the walls and the horse-lords drew closer, and then the shell burst in the heavens.

**Firework. Parachute. Stays aloft.**

Under the sudden light, stronger than the moon, the Uruks methodically worked their levers and sent out deadly volleys. A number of mines were lit and triggered, scything through the horses behind the initial rush, and a forest of bayonet-points panicked the horses as the rifles behind them spat fire.

* * *

><p>"Why, Gandalf?" Saruman asked. "I wanted your help in this. Can you not see, it is the reason for which I was put upon Middle-Earth! Not only to defeat Sauron, but to break the cruelties he imposed on its' people and create a future!"<p>

Gandalf shook his head sorrowfully. "Evil is poison and disease in one, Saruman. The way the Númenorians fell should have warned you of that."

So saying, he threw himself off the tower, the lord of Eagles bearing him up and away from Orthanc a moment later.

Lurtz called to Saruman from the floor below. "I could still hit him, lord."

"No, let him go. I can only hope he will see reason."

* * *

><p>AN: This is the most spectacular plot bunny to ever hit me, I think. All this lot was written in the last twenty-four hours.<p>

This is a crossover between Lord of the Rings, and a series of books that don't appear to be on the site - the General books by David Drake. The central theme of the General series is arresting the fall of civilization and replacing it with a continuous rise.

Central itself is an AI, able to calculate extremely detailed simulations of future events on very little information. It cannot, however, innovate - that's the job of its' human partner.

Most of what shows up here is pretty much doable with the kind of resources Saruman has in either the books or the films, assuming that he has a few years to prepare. And while it's wildly divergent from Tolkien's themes for the series, Saruman is a Maiar aligned to the Valar of the forge and of smith-work. So if anyone, him.

Do let me know if I forgot an apostrophe or accent somewhere. Dang English professors and their constructed languages...


	2. Chapter 2

"Lurtz. I need your unit ready to move out tomorrow. Draw triple ammunition loads, you may be in the field a long time."

The Uruk nodded his assent. "What shall we do for supplies?"

"Take two week's worth of hardtack, and take gold." Central murmured for a moment in the back of his mind. "Your unit has humans in the ranks?"

"Yes. Solid lads. Two dwarves as well, refugees from Moria - who we found on the slopes of the western border of the vale."

"Yes, I remember. Very well, have them buy food from local farmers. Much of the harvest is in, and it was mostly good this year in the north. The Dwarves have no issue with wargs?"

"No, sir. Nor do the wargs really have an issue with them. They've been around so many different scents that they get used to new ones quickly."

"Excellent." The Wizard turned to a map of Middle-Earth. "Take them out of Nan Curunir to the west, and head through Enedwaith towards the eastern edge of Eriador."

His finger traced a route, starting in the Shire and heading east, before tapping Weathertop. "Our former guest was attacked here last night by Ringwraiths. I believe they are closing on the Ring and its' bearer. Do not, I repeat, do _not_ attack the bearer or the Nazgúl unless the Nine are on the verge of taking the Ring. If they are, make use of naptha grenades."

"I should take some of them?" At Saruman's confirmation, Lurtz continued thinking. "And artillery?"

"No. You must move as fast as possible."

"Pistols? They're usable from the saddle, and they take Isen rifle ammunition anyway."

Saruman gestured expansively. "It's your expedition. To continue. If it happens that the Nine have already taken the Ring, shoot their horses, shoot them, delay them all you can until whatever help that can shows up – if the Nine are delayed overlong in Eriador, I imagine the Elves will sally."

Lurtz grinned savagely. "That'll confuse the Elves. But what if they have already attacked and failed?"

"A perspicacious question. You should shadow the Ring bearer and his company, ensuring that any major threats are eliminated if you judge it within your capacity to do so. And if you can avoid compromising your presence."

"Your will be done, lord."

"You understand my design, Lurtz?"

"I think so. You want the Ring to be destroyed, and to not fall into the hands of Sauron."

"Exactly. That Ring has brought only ruin to all who have possessed it. Even Sauron himself, in truth."

Lurtz chuckled harshly. "Yes, a mighty weapon indeed – so long as you don't explode when someone takes it off you!"

Saruman joined in. "Indeed. I wonder, was the Dark Lord made out of gunpowder?"

"You mean you're not the inventor? I feel my illusions shattered." Lurtz was grinning once more.

"Gunpowder shatters illusions as easily as rock. Build with knowledge, instead."

"As you say, Lord." Lurtz turned to go, then paused. "Lord? I plan on making for the Loudwater, then heading to the west along the Great East Road. Is that a fair choice?"

"Certainly. While it may delay your approach to Weathertop, it will also put you in place to meet whoever it is coming the other way if the flight of the Ring-bearer continues past it. Detach some troops to picket the Greenway bridge of the Greyflood, though – that will likely be the return route if the Nine are successful."

Saruman then turned a sly eye towards his officer. "And did I hear you refer to it as the "Isen" rifle?"

"Sorry, Lord, bit of a nickname we came up with." Lurtz stood stiffly at attention.

"I approve, and I'll make it official. Better than calling it the Curunir or the Saruman, after all."

* * *

><p>"Next, the Dunland and Enedwaith."<p>

The remaining nine unit commanders and their senior subordinates watched with a little awe as Saruman's minor spell lit up the map of Middle-Earth according to polity. His finger moved to the region between the Greyflood and the Isen. "These people are on our doorstep, and they are an angry people." He turned to a book of history. "Do you know the reason?"

All of the Uruks shook their heads, along with the few Dwarves and all but two of the Men. One, a man formerly of Rohan, looked uncertain. "What I understand is that they lost the War of the Long Winter, and seek revenge."

"Ah, that is the end, but not the start. The troubles for the people of Enedwaith began with the men of Númenor, who prosecuted them harshly. Then the land of Calenardhon was granted to the Éothéod, who became Rohirrim and that land Rohan. But who do you think already lived there?"

Saruman waved a hand, and the illusion played itself out on the map. The Dunlending lands greatly reduced by the "gift" Gondor had given to its' new vassal, a gift that was not entirely theirs to give.

"Yet despite that, things could have been resolved peacefully. After centuries of border conflict, there was a chance of Helm Hammerhand and the chieftain of the Dunlendings making an alliance by marriage. The Dunlendings brought a great force to the meeting, to try to cow Helm into submission. But Helm killed the chieftain with a blow of his fist, in the meeting itself. This is the cause for the war, and for the resentment. The Men of Dunland have lived with hardly any of the land they once owned, with nothing from the tall foreigners who took it but pain and strife."

The Dunlender, the other human who had known a little about the history, frowned. "What do you plan, lord?"

"Enedwaith." Another sweep of his hand, and the area returned to normal. "It is more or less unclaimed, but for that part where men of Eriador have come across the river – and not many of them. I propose that the men of Dunland be given our assistance in holding that land against raids from any source."

The Dunlender looked at the map dubiously. "It's not the ancestral holdings."

"I'll be impressed if we can find somewhere for everyone at all. Enedwaith is effectively deserted, and the only reason that it has not been colonized properly is the dangers from raiding, which led the men of Dunland to stay concentrated. Any attempt by Rohan to cross over the Isen to attack will be met with force." Saruman looked up, and his eyes were like steel. "I will assure them of that."

After a moment, the other's gaze dropped, unwilling to meet his eyes. "They'll be satisfied with that, I think."

The man of Rohan agreed. "For a cessation in the raiding back and forth, Theoden will probably agree to anything as simple as that."

"They had better." Saruman turned his attention to another. "Kernak. How long would it take to re-establish the old road from Edoras to re-connect with the Greenway?"

"It's a project of a good few years." The logistics expert among the Uruks replied. "Properly grading it, making it a proper highway… could be several years, yes. The main issue is the bridging of the Isen and the Greyflood, by that point both are substantial rivers."

"Point taken." Saruman then rubbed the edges of his eyes. "I never truly grasped just how empty much of Middle-Earth is before now. To know that from the Brandywine to the Isen, from the Sea to the Misty Mountains, has only three or four pockets of proper settlement…"

**It is a consequence of a realm exhausted by infighting. Often in history such a state is vulnerable to plague.**

_True. What is the next most vulnerable area?_

**Observe.**

Armies of troops from the far east advancing in glorious array with fine armour and weapons to conquer the Dale.

**Observe.**

The men of Dale were a young, small nation, and made use of blocks of citizen swordsmen in a chequerboard formation backed by the bowmen that were almost their symbol.

But the skill of the forces of the Easterlings, their own composite horse-bows, and the metalworking of Rhûn gave them too much of an advantage, pushing the Dalesmen back until their cities were stormed and put to the torch.

**Allies from the West and North aid the Dalesmen if they are attacked, but this is insufficient. Cavalry archery too effective a tactic.**

An image of blocks of Easterling halberdiers, backed by foot archers.

**Primitive version of Pike and Shot.**

The swirling cavalry of the East, coming in and volleying their powerful arrows before retreating, occasionally drawing out one of the scant Dalesman cavalry units before slaughtering them.

_Timeframe?_

**Five months minimum.**

Saruman's eyes opened again. "We must be ready for the dispatch of an expeditionary force soon. I need envoys sent to the city of Dale offering the promise of defence."

* * *

><p>Lurtz held his rifle in the air for a moment as his Warg splashed across the fords of Bruinen.<p>

"Now that's mobility, lads! Over half the length of the Misty Mountains in a week!"

His company cheered, called out, or mainly just croaked something unintelligible. They'd been on their mounts a good nine hours a day for the last week, and had ridden through the night just earlier while they were in the part of Eregion that contained their closest approach to Rivendell.

Lurtz slipped the rifle back into its' sheath. "Alright, everyone, water the Wargs here and take a break. Thirty minutes, then we move on and find a hill to laager up, get some rest in, and let whoever has to be sentry get enough sleep as well. We move on tomorrow."

* * *

><p>Arwen of the elves of Rivendell, daughter of Elrond and Celebrían, steadied the hobbit riding with her on her horse once more. She had already been riding through Trollshaws for the last few days without a break, and at least two more remained before she reached the Bruinen and safety in her father's land.<p>

Something moved up ahead, so far that it would be invisible to all but an elf, and she turned her attention to it. She had mainly been keeping track of the Ring-Wraiths following behind her, trying to lose them and not letting them get around her – though she secretly wondered whether maybe she hadn't done as good a job as she could have, due to her desire to keep Aragorn safe.

But that approaching patch of movement was her concern now. It came on fast, several more seeming to converge on it as it approached, and the occasional harsh cry and bark made it clear what she was riding towards.

So she had failed. The forces of the Shadow had trapped her between the hammer of the Nazgúl and the anvil of an Orc band. Not the most noble of ways to die, but she could at least make her death worth something.

Frodo moaned as she moved to string her bow, and almost fell, so she didn't try again. She couldn't risk slowing, not with the Nine behind her, and even without her bow she might – might – be able to break through, now she saw the Warg riders. Rather than a pack, they were strung out in a long line – surprisingly well dressed, actually, not like the slovenly approximation of a formation most Orcs took, and-

Just as she registered that the Wargs were an unusually large breed, and hence so were the Orcs, the line broke in the middle on a shouted command.

Leaving the road free for her.

Well, she wasn't going to question it, and encouraged her elven-bred steed into a brief gallop to clear the line of Orcs.

* * *

><p>Lurtz nodded in approval as the complex manoeuvre went off without a hitch. "Good work, lads! Now, prepare to receive cavalry!"<p>

The Wargs knew the drill almost as well as their riders. They slowed from the ground-eating lope to a walk, then lay down to let the troopers dismount. Each rider took their basic ammunition pouch and rifle, ran forward two paces and knelt.

"Brass tips!" Each man, Dwarf or Uruk took one of the armour-piercing rounds with the brass point sitting atop the lead, snapped open the chamber of their rifles with the lever, and thumbed the bolt into the breech. "Aim for the horses, set your sights." They went through the process of closing the breech and setting the hammer, flicked the sights up from their resting place-

"Five hundred in three!" Called the rangefinder.

Set them to five hundred yards, and levelled the guns.

Lurtz counted off the last two seconds in his head, levelling his own rifle. A voice in the back of his head noted that he was about to fire the very first rifle volley in anger on Middle Earth, unless things had completely gone to pot over the last ten days. "Fire!"

Forty rifles spat flame and smoke, and a measurable fraction of a second later about half of the Black Riders went down unceremoniously as their horses collapsed. Another horse staggered with impact, but carried on going, stumbling, at the silent command of that Rider.

"Second volley on my order!"

The troops noted that without consciously hearing it, their hands focused on the routine. Clear the breech by lowering the lever and ejecting the spent cartridge, take a round from the pouch, fit the new round in, close the breech, set the hammer, bring the rifle up to bear once more.

"Fire!"

Three of the remaining four horses foundered, and the first five Wraiths to fall had barely managed to disentangle themselves from the ruin of their mounts.

The last continued riding forward, pushing the black horse brutally, and was almost to the line when twenty or so bullets smashed into his robe and the same into his horse, many of them going right through and killing it more or less instantly.

"Mount up, withdraw in good order!"

The closest of the Nazgúl seemed to actually have been hurt by the attack. Acting on a whim, Lurtz took his incendiary grenade, lit the fuze with a striker and tossed it at the entangled Wraith.

The screech that met his ears when it exploded was _extremely_ satisfying.

"Right, everyone! Back to last night's camp, and good work!"

* * *

><p>Arwen had seen the strange Orcs deploy into a line across the road, and had stopped to gauge their skill – and now that she was able to concentrate, there were men and Dwarves in the group as well – and watched with shock, and relief tempered by fear, as they methodically annihilated the horses of the Black Riders.<p>

Deciding to use the unexpected help for all it was worth, she rode east once more. Now that the Nine were no longer pursuing her, she could stop to give Frodo some proper help and perhaps slow the progress of the Morgul dagger's shard.

* * *

><p>The mounted platoon slowed to a halt, a good fifteen miles from where they'd engaged the Black Riders.<p>

"Alright. Glod? Uncase the colours. We want to look like the proper military unit we are, not some band of raiders. A few of you with some skill at hunting – Graz, Edel. Go and find something meaty to add to the Wargs' mash. Use those bows you brought, we need to make those brass rounds last." Lurtz looked over the platoon as the colour sergeant uncased their two banners – a white hand holding a hammer, and the future regimental banner of a spyglass. "Make sure you have the white banner out as well… Good. Now, I want three volunteers – a colour-man, and two troopers. We're going to see if we can talk with the elven lady. Oh, and sergeant-major? Keep an eye out for those Riders. If you see 'em, come looking for us on the road back to the fords, head for the Laager before last if you don't see us before then."

A chorus of "Aye, sir!" answered him, with a couple of grins from troopers still het up from their earlier victory. At least half a dozen raised their hands.

_Good troops. I could hardly ask for better._

"You, you and… you. Sorry, lads, but she's like as not going to be reassured by us not being all Uruks."

He reached down and scratched his Fenca behind the ear. "All right, girl. Come on, we're moving out again."

She whined a bit, but subsided and began to lope back to the road. Behind him came two Uruk troopers and one human, the latter with the regimental colour standard replaced by a white truce-banner.

* * *

><p>Arwen bent over Frodo, her steed standing nearby and her sword Hadhafang close at hand. "Stay with me, Ring-bearer. You are strong… you have life in you yet." Closing her eyes, she reached out to try and imbue him with some of her Elven vitality.<p>

It was hard. She wasn't as experienced at it as she could be, and the Morgul knife's shard had already wormed its' way deep.

After a good half hour, she wiped her brow. His struggles had subsided and he seemed more lucid, which could only be a good thing. But she had to hurry to Rivendell.

"Hey, lady." A voice said in good, if accented, Quenya.

She whirled, taking up her sword in a single fluid motion.

"Hey, calm down." The voice continued, and she saw its' owner – the leader of a party of four, mounted on Wargs. "We've got a white flag up, see?"

On seeing it – and that, unlike any Orcs she had met before, these strange large Orcs were in good order and seemed disciplined – she lowered Hadhafang. "Why are you here?"

"We came on orders from the White Wizard. He heard the Nine were in the area, and told us to delay them. You're welcome, by the way."

"Saruman? Gandalf sent word to Rivendell that he had turned away from the light."

"Turned away from the light, is it now." Lurtz crossed his arms. "And who was it that sent a mounted platoon a hundred leagues and more to stop the Nazgúl?"

"Evil always fights amongst itself. It is the triumph of the light that they show solidarity."

"Lady, if you think that, then what was the Kinstrife? The sundering of Arnor? We've ridden nigh on five hundred miles and more, and much of the land we were riding over was deserted from the mountains to the sea. This is behind the Gap of Rohan, Sauron's armies couldn't reach it without fighting their way through the entire Rohirrim. Where are all the _people_?"

Lurtz then shrugged. "But if you don't believe that, believe this. We're not here for the Ring. And if we were, we could have already taken it."

"I don't believe you."

"Fair enough, no reason you should. But the Isen rifle," A single smooth motion brought Lurtz' own out of its' sheath, though he kept it pointed at the ground, "Can kill at twice the range of an Elf-bow. Name a target."

Her eyes flickered from him for a moment. "The tree on top of that hill over there."

Lurtz whistled. "Quick, not bad. Sit, Fenca." So saying, he dismounted, giving his Warg a reassuring caress as he did so, and snapped up the sights. "Range?"

One of the two Uruks had a parallax rangefinder – mainly a telescope with a split lens and the focus wheel equipped with a range read-off. "Nine hundred!"

"Damn near the top setting…" he mumbled, loading with a hollow-point round and training the rifle's range marker and front on the tree – it was at quite a steep upward angle, at that range. He slowly exhaled… gently took up the slack…

The BANG came as a surprise, as it should for target shooting. On trained reflex, he moved the lever down and collected the spent cartridge, slipping it into a pocket.

"Well?"

His colour-bearer nodded. "Good work, Cap. Big splinter, out the right side."

Arwen, he noticed, had shivered slightly. "Point taken, then. May I ask your intentions?"

"And now you're all polite. Suppose that happens when someone has just shown they can kill you and haven't." Lurtz sighed. "But whatever. We're going to be around here for the next month or two. Any idea where a good place to buy fodder and rations is?"

The Elven woman sighed herself. "I will ask my father, the Lord of Rivendell, what should be done."

"Oh, no problem. We want to keep this polite. But in any case, the Nazgúl are disabled for a good week or so given how far it is from the fords of Bruinen to here. Anyone else we should know about that might be around?"

"Yes, my- The ranger, Strider, and three Hobbits."

"Ranger? Dúnedan, then?" She nodded reluctantly. "Good solid soldiers, if a bit overconfident. Don't worry, we'll make sure not to shoot… first, anyway." Then the Uruk snapped his fingers. "Almost forgot." He slipped his hand into a pouch, and pulled out a paper sachet of iodine powder. "This will clean wounds, like the one the Hobbit there has taken. No sense his dying to a disease after surviving the attention of the Nine, is there?"

* * *

><p>"Fine, take your damned food. But we don't want you around here!"<p>

The human soldier sighed as he loaded bread and mash onto his Warg. "We're paying good gold, we're not giving you any trouble – I don't really see the problem."

"The rest of you are Orcs! They're all the same, no matter what you say." The town watch leader then shrugged. "But you haven't been any trouble yet, so I'll give you that. Just keep them well outside."

"We're watching the ford, not your village, so no argument here." The last loaves went into the pack bags. "Right, come on."

As his warg whined, he heard the sound of thudding paws approaching. He hurriedly tapped the warg on the nose to tell him to stay down, and ran to the nearest guard tower with the watchman shouting at him.

It took only a few seconds to climb the ladder, which was at least partly because of his clothes. The army's battledress was light chain mail, which he hadn't put on, and a light, thick shirt made up of fine fibres which was as useful for warmth as it was for stopping arrows.

"Sarge!"

The Uruk leading his squad glanced up at the tower. "Good, I thought you'd be here. A raiding party of goblins is headed this way from the foothills. At least sixty, and a troll."

The town watchman, who had been shouting up at the soldier, stopped abruptly. "A troll?"

"I can see them. Maybe a minute behind you." The human soldier confirmed, then turned to the gathering crowd of townsmen. "My squad can stop them, but we're going to do much better from a fortified position like this. Open the gates to let the others in."

"Outrageous!" an alderman claimed. "This is all some sort of trickery!"

A stuttering BANG came from outside the gates, then some shouting. "I said volley, you idiots! And set your sights, you don't have to give yourselves a handicap just because this lot are rubbish!"

The human soldier didn't continue the conversation, instead beckoning his mount to the base of the ladder and taking his rifle from the sheath. "I don't have time to argue about this." Another CRASH sounded, this time as a single sound, and the human snapped open the breech. "Sarge! I have a higher angle here, you want me to go for the troll?"

"Sounds good to me. Volley!" Another crash of sound. "Don't forget the brass tip! Not you lot, you stay with hollow points!"

"Your honour, my squad are doing well, but there are too many goblins to-" The crash of another volley interrupted conversation for a moment, then the single crack of the sniper, "To kill before they reach the town. We need the safety of the walls."

The mayor looked torn for a moment, before nodding to the guardsmen. "Open the gates."

His armsmen, likely the only permanent guards in the town, hastened to obey.

One final volley, then the rest of the squad flowed into the town and their wargs pushed the gates closed again with a bang.

A small goblin arrow hit the human in the arm. Thankfully, the thick shirt absorbed most of the arrow's energy and held it back from getting stuck in the wound. He replied by killing the goblin who had fired with the next shot.

Other members of the squad were firing from the towers now, peppering the troll with shot after shot, clearly wounding but not doing enough damage.

"Hollow points on the troll, volley on my order!" The sergeant called. At this low a range, the sheer speed of impact would drive the bullet straight through almost any armour, and the additional internal damage from the hollow-points could prove decisive.

One by one, the rifles snapped up to ready. One or two of the soldiers had their pistols out and loaded as well.

"Fire!"

At a range of barely fifty feet, a smoothbore would hit more often than not on a man sized target. Ten trained riflemen slammed home their shots into an area of the troll's chest not much bigger than one of its' meaty fists, and took most of it with them as they left on the other side. The beast lumbered forward another step or two, before dumbly realizing it was dead and toppling forward.

The goblins seemed to flinch back, and a few pistol shots snapped out from the quicker reacting troopers. That seemed to turn the trick, and they began to turn to run.

"Pursuit!" The Uruk sergeant called. Most of the wargs recognized that call, and knelt to let their riders on. "Open the gates!"

As the heavy wooden doors swung aside, the ten drew their sabres. Steel shimmered in the afternoon sun. "At a trot… at a charge!"

* * *

><p>"Uglúk, I need one of your best subordinates ready to ride out tomorrow."<p>

"Yes, Lord. May I ask why?"

"Of course. He's going with the delegation to Dale, to see how defensible their cities are. If they could hold out for a few months on their own, then any invasion could simply be met with sending out a regiment or two to slice up the Rhûn rear area supply train."

"I see, Lord. And the Edoras delegation?"

"I'm going myself. It's close enough to Nan Curunir that it shouldn't be any undue disruption."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. They need to know this is serious. The Dunlends are under my aegis now, and I will not tolerate anyone attacking them for revenge of revenge of revenge of their being driven off their own lands in the first place." Saruman recalled something. "Oh, and let Kerkú know that he'll be coming with me. I want his cavalry unit broken in two and sent as the guards of the delegations – the Dale unit needs to move fast, and the Rohirrim will respect well organized cavalry as nothing else."

Uglúk nodded, deferring to the greater wisdom of his lord. "What about Lurtz's unit? They should have reached the Bruinen by now."

"The crows are ready to begin service." One of the large corvids flapped past, dipping wings briefly in their own type of salute. "They'll be able to keep in contact with him, especially since I have found a few willing to allow me their eyes and voice once in a while."

"That could be very useful."

"To a point. There are only three of them. One will fly north to our errant recon commander, another will travel to Dale with a flight of the crows to let them know we are coming - Dale's men can talk to animals, but best to be on the safe side – and coordinate with that detachment, and the last shall remain in Isengard when I leave."

A thought occurred to him. "And get Grima Wormtongue to meet me. He spent a year with the Rohirrim before I recalled him, and should know what their leaders' dispositions are."

Uglúk grimaced. "I don't like him."

"Very few do. I don't think he even does himself. But he's good at what he does."

* * *

><p>"Through Emnet to the waters of the Entwash, then north into the Wold, cross the river Anduin to the south of the field of Celebrant and skirt Mirkwood to the River Running?"<p>

"Not a bad route, for someone picking it off a map." A Dalesman smith muttered, "But Rhovanion's not called the wilderland for nothing. It'll take you weeks to get across and you'll have to carry too much water. No, better to cross at the Celebrant as you said and then follow the east side of the Anduin. Cross through Mirkwood near the mountains where there's a road, just south of Beorn's halls, and reach the Dale that way."

Ternak suddenly struck the map. "Is this entire continent _that_ backwards? It seems like only Eriador and Gondor have even heard of the concept of a paved road!"

The smith nodded unhappily. Since seeing the slow, steady creep of communication networks spreading out from the fortress to the end of the vale, he'd become something of a convert to the idea. "Wouldn't be so bad if we could use river transport, of course…"

"Not going to be possible unless the eaves of Fangorn to the Entwash are under firm control. The entire western half of the continent is all small rivers, whereas the great Anduin dominates the east."

* * *

><p>The chieftain growled warily, hunkering down and staring at the four mounted Uruks across the clearing.<p>

After a moment, he spoke. "This is truth?"

"It is." Oglo replied. "It took us too long to find you, or we'd have given this offer before the onset of the winter. Sanctuary, food, and employment if you want it. For yourself, and your pack, and all willing to accept."

The low-slung werewolf looked around the clearing. His pack of the intelligent wolves originally created by Morgoth had suffered repeated setbacks as the Shadow waxed again, and the depths of Mirkwood were hardly the safest of havens.

That they were descended from those that had fled rather than fight to the death for their creator was part of it.

"I will tell others. They may listen. Where is this Wizard's fort?"

"Isengard, on the northern edge of the Gap of Rohan."

"What work?"

"Messages, is what the Wizard told me. He said the hardest type of courier to intercept was the kind that could carry the message in their mind, and that could fight or run."

The pack leader looked once more to the others. Most of them gazed back with decision in their eyes.

"You will see us soon, orc-man."

With that, the pack fluidly rose and loped off into the trees.

* * *

><p>Harald of Edoras blinked sleep out of his eyes and looked north. It was near the start of his watch, and he felt the formality was essentially pointless. It wasn't as if an enemy force could get to the capital without the Eorlingas being able to concentrate and stop them, or at least <em>notice<em>, and-

Something moved, and the back of his mind threw up an alert. That wasn't a horse-unit!

He squinted into the haze of the morning, confirming his sighting, and rang the alarm-bell.

* * *

><p>Saruman frowned, then smiled with wry amusement as he, a few Logistics riders, and half of the Death Dealers cavalry's first (and currently only) company slowed to a walk in front of the gates of the capital of Rohan.<p>

"It seems we forgot to get our reservations in order."

A Warg-drawn chariot rolled up behind him. He had offered the transport to a well-respected Dunlending chieftain to get him to Edoras quickly, and while it had gone smoothly enough it only confirmed his assumption. Chariots weren't manoeuvrable enough to be practicable in most of the rolling terrain of Rohan, and shook enough besides to make gunshot from them useless.

"Hey, Wizard. We going in now?"

"I think we have to wait until they remember what the purpose of a gate in a wall is." he replied. "Though I have to say, I don't think all that much of the wall."

* * *

><p>"All raids across the Isen will be answered harshly." Saruman explained quietly to the King of Rohan and his gathered marshals. "From either side."<p>

Theoden looked uncertain. One of his marshals-

**Eomer. His nephew.**

strode past the small knot of Rohirric nobles and halted inches from one of the disarmed Uruk cavalry.

Ten of their number held their weapons outside the walls. Saruman had surrendered his staff, and his escorts their small cast iron shard-blades (made in the standard demonstration of how brittle cast iron was – an ingot of the metal was slammed into a wrought iron ingot of similar dimensions, behind a thick earth wall, and the pieces of cast collected for conversion to knives), but the rifles were being kept out of range of possible light fingers.

"I don't trust this, uncle." Eomer said, inspecting the Uruk closely for a moment. "They're Orcs, and you know what the Grey Wanderer said when he visited here, about Saruman."

"Oh?" Saruman asked. "I wasn't aware Gandalf passed this way. Was he after a horse?"

"Yes!" Hurin burst out. "And he took the leader of the Maeras, Shadowfax. I've-"

Theoden silenced him with an arm. "That's enough, Warden. White wizard, if you can prove the truth of your words, we will agree to them. To no longer have to endure the raids of the Dunlends across into our lands would be a relief."

"They were our lands first, you-" The chieftain began hotly.

"Peace!" Saruman snapped. "We are not here to chew over old quarrels. What matters is that they _end._"

Most of the Rohirrim nodded their assent, though Eomer did not join in the general agreement.

Saruman watched as his face seemed to freeze, and a grid dropped over it. Arrows pointed out areas – the set of the mouth, the eyes, the forehead. Blood flow, pupil dilation, minute changes in the face.

**Probability that subject Eomer will initiate noncompliance with order to cease raiding, 60% +/- 5%.**

_A pity if he does. He seems a good man otherwise._

**The definition of a bad man is often that they are the enemy.**

* * *

><p>The forty or so troopers of Lurtz' platoon cheered as the detached squad that had covered the ford of the Greyflood river rode into the laager they had established near the ford of the Loudwater.<p>

"Fun trip, lads?"

The sergeant grinned back at the speaker. "The local fortified village didn't like us for the first few days, though we paid for everything in good coin. Then a raiding party of gobbos attacked and got shot to bits, and they love us now. Even threw us a party."

"Alright, everyone." Lurtz said, and the banter stilled. "We're headed to Rivendell. Rifles breech-safed and sheathed, and pistols same but a round up the spout – and keep a shard-blade handy, even if only for food."

"Your girlfriend get back to you?" one of the troopers called, to general laughter.

"Ah, shove off. The lady Arwen has given safe conduct, but she's warned me in no uncertain terms that it lasts only as long as we don't do anything to harm other delegations to this thing they call the Council of Elrond." He chuckled. "Probably partly fear, but you can hardly revoke something like that. Be good to see what kind of food they serve at this "last homely house", too, come to that."

* * *

><p>Saruman saddled up his personal warg, Huan, named for the legendary hound (indeed, this particular warg he suspected to have werewolf blood somewhere, as he often seemed to be following nearby speech with unusual focus) and ruffled his fur affectionately. The great beast rumbled happily, and some of the horses in the nearby stables made frightened whimpers.<p>

"I apologise for the disruption, warden." He said calmly to the nervous-looking Hurin, "But Nan Curunir doesn't have a native horse population, and I didn't want to impose on Rohan's generosity – so this is the logical route."

"And they work as riding animals?" the Warden of the Keys asked sceptically.

"They're more independent than horse, but rather more intelligent as well." Huan nodded slightly, leaning into his master's scratches, "And they do fight better, of course…"

Everything was strategy. A few casual words outside a stable, and one of the higher nobles in Rohan would be wary of facing the armies of Isen.

But he had to return to the Vale. "Alright, Huan, come on." The animal knelt to let him climb on.

Nearby he heard Kerkú talking to his own warg, Soren. "Up, you lazy son-of-a-bitch." The warg snorted and reluctantly straightened his legs. "Oh, shut up, you'll enjoy it once we're going."

* * *

><p>Lurtz spotted a crow flying straight for him, and raised an arm for it to land on.<p>

After it alighted, there was a brief sense of otherness, and then his lord's voice came through the crow's beak. "Lurtz. Report."

"The Nine are unhorsed, and the Ring bearer reached Rivendell safely. We have not seen the Nazgúl since their defeat. In addition, the small town of Greyford on the main road from Eriador south was saved from attack by a squad of ours. We're in Rivendell for the next while."

"Good, I will send emissaries to Greyford. They may aid our logistics project." The crow blinked slowly. "If you can manage it, join the council of Elrond as my representatives. It would be best to remain apart from the quest itself. By all means offer escort and safe passage through the Gap, though I doubt they will head that close to Isengard."

"Got it. Oh, I can report that the grenades are fairly clumsy in battle, but the dragoon drill works perfectly. Pistols work, but they take too long to reload per shot."

"Thank you, I will see what can be done."

The crow's eyes lost their faint film, and it nodded gravely to him before taking flight once more.

* * *

><p>"Central?" Saruman asked quietly, atop the star-look.<p>

**Friction fuzes. Observe.**

The image of Lurtz, taking out a grenade, then fumbling for a striker, lighting the fuze and throwing the smooth sphere.

**Inefficient.**

**Observe.**

This time, the Uruk took a sphere with a separate metal ring on top, pulled the ring and threw the grenade.

The vision rewound, then showed the inner workings of the ring. Pulling it caused a rough section on a flat metal strip attacked to the ring to rub against a similar rough section inside the grenade proper. Smoke hissed from the two sections, and the fuze was lit from a dozen pinpricks of intense heat.

**More sophisticated, but easier to use. Relegating effort to the manufacturing process.**

**Improved pistol. Observe.**

This time, the image was of a cutaway diagram of a pistol. The trigger pull made the hammer move back on a cam, then snap forward.

The image shifted. Now the trigger lever first made a cylinder click over by one position and brought a new cartridge in front of the hammer, before pulling it back and firing.

**Revolver. From three to ten shots per load, depending on design.**

The cylinder snapped out of the revolver entirely, and spent cases tinkled out. A new load went in, pre-positioned by a simple piece of metal.

**Speed loader.**

The vision faded.

* * *

><p>Lurtz looked up at a small sound of indignation, and saw Gandalf headed his way.<p>

"Afternoon, Wizard, tell me, is the Council to be held soon?"

"How did you get in here, Orc?" Gandalf asked, frowning.

"We have safe conduct from the lady Arwen, on account of our unhorsing the Nine and aiding her escape. Our master Saruman is no more a supporter of Sauron than you are – and we live on Arda as much as the Elves, Men, Hobbits and Dwarves. Are we not permitted to speak?"

"I cannot in all fairness refuse a peaceable offer of talk." Gandalf allowed. "The council is tomorrow. Just know that I am not yet convinced."

"No reason you should be. Yet."

"You know, Cap," one of Lurtz' sergeants muttered to him as the Wizard left, "You two were all but snarling at each other. You not hit it off well?"

"He has a problem with all of us, because we're somehow "degraded". I have a problem with that kind of bigot." Lurtz muttered darkly. "Never mind that we're stronger, faster, no shorter lived and so on than men… he has to focus on the Elven angle."

The large Uruk then shrugged. "But that doesn't matter now. Who else has been seen around Rivendell who may be at the council?"

"No men of Rohan, though a representative of the Steward of Gondor – his heir, Boromir."

"I remember him. The bearer of the Horn, if I recall rightly, and a distinguished soldier. Proper professional." Lurtz said with something like approval.

"Yeah, Gondorians vary, but the City standing army and the Dol Amroth one are both fairly high quality. Oh, there were some Sindar elves and supposedly they're led by the prince of that kingdom."

"Standard practice for most monarchies – send a relative of the leader as your delegation head. Oh, how do we know that?"

The sergeant chuckled. "They don't seem to know that we're all fluent in Sindarin and Quenya as well as Westron."

"And Black Speech, of course…" Lurtz mused. "I overheard the Dwarves arguing about working with Elves, and they're apparently a general delegation from all the holds except Khazud-Dum."

"You're the linguist. I can't speak more than about a dozen words of Khuzdul, and they're all obscene."

The captain chuckled harshly. "Anyone from the Kingdom of Dale?"

"Nope. They're too focused east is my guess, the men of the East are on the march already."

"Well, still a fairly impressive complement. As it should be given how important the subject of discussion is. Now, the other issue. How are the Wargs doing?"

"Some of them were a bit unsettled at first, but your Fenca's been making sure they all stay quiet. I've told off two people on a rotation to keep them properly fed, watered and to take them to the river to do their business, the Elven stablehands don't seem very comfortable with working with them."

"Heh, comes of using pansy horses. Okay, I think that's everything. I'm off to the library, anyone else with me?"

"Nah, some of the troops set up a dice game. We're going to try our luck."

* * *

><p>Frodo sat back, feeling the small weight of his new mithril chain shirt settle under his clothes. Bilbo was right, it barely weighed anything – in fact, it was warmed easily enough that it felt like little more than a conventional vest.<p>

The room he was in was full of the kind of books he could only have dreamed of back in Bag End. Both he and Bilbo had been bibliophiles by the standard of other Hobbits, but Elrond of Rivendell had lived thousands of years and been accumulating his literary treasures for that entire time. The tales of Huan, of Beren and Lúthien's forbidden love, of the great dragons and of the far distant Ages of the Stars were stacked among the walls.

"Excuse me?"

Frodo started at the gruff voice and turned, expecting a man or a Dwarf, but saw instead a six-and-a-half foot, dark skinned giant with features that marked him out as Orcish.

"Hello?"

Frodo was too shocked by the sight of a large Orc in the library of Elrond to respond, effectively rendered speechless.

Lurtz frowned, and switched to Quenya. _"Do you understand me?"_

When no response was forthcoming, he asked the same question of Frodo in Khuzdul, Sindarin, Dale, Rohirric and even Black Speech before the Hobbit finally recovered.

"No, I speak Westron fine… I'm sorry, I was just startled. Er, did you just try _seven_ different languages on me? I didn't think anyone but Gandalf knew that many."

"I'm special even for the Uruks under the Wizard Saruman. Most of us know three or four – usually Westron, Black Speech and one or both forms of Elven – but I study them as a pastime. Tell me, are you the hobbit who I and my men saved a few weeks back, running from the Nine?"

"I suppose I must have been, master… master orc?" Lurtz shrugged.

"I prefer Uruk. Not that we don't have the odd Orc, or Dwarf, or almost anything in the army, but Uruk's more precise."

"I see. Er, forgive my asking, but what _is_ an Uruk?" Frodo asked nervously.

"Orc and man, crossed much like one crosses wolf and dog. Or Elf and man, for that matter."

"I… see. Forgive my asking, but what is an – a… _half-orc_ doing in the Last Homely House?"

"We're here for the Council, same as you. We who oppose the shadow ought not to be at each other's throats, don't you think?"

"So, you said Saruman, your master openly opposes the Dark Lord?"

"That he does, or will as soon as the black rags manage to walk the length of Middle-Earth to tell him."

"Walk? Don't they have horses?"

"Not any more they don't." Lurtz chuckled. "Isens chewed them up, neat as you please. Sometimes I think everyone's so unimaginative, you know. If the riders are nearly impossible to kill, just shoot the horses out from under them."

Frodo surprised himself with a giggle – maybe it was shock. "Well, thank you then. I apologize, but I think I need to settle my nerves a bit."

"Of course. See you this evening."

* * *

><p><em>Well, that was interesting. So that's the hobbit who bears the Ring. Skittish little thing, but I don't know many Hobbits. And anyone who comes hundreds of miles rather than give up somewhere along the way has the kind of steel I can respect.<em>

* * *

><p>"Strangers from distant lands… friends… and other visitors…" Elrond's eyes passed briefly over Lurtz and his colour party, who snorted, "We are gathered here to answer the threat of Mordor."<p>

"And Rhun and Harad." Lurtz added helpfully. "Oh, and the Orcs of the North, and of the Misty Mountains…"

"Yes, thank you. I wasn't finished."

Elrond paused, getting back to his train of thought. "Middle-Earth stands on the brink of destruction. You will unite or you will fall."

"Or you will invent an entirely new type of weapon. I'll take that option." Lurtz muttered to himself.

"Each race is bound to this doom, this fate. Even those who sit here in the guise of the enemy have shown their will shall not be cowed by the Dark Lord, and so they must continue to resist."

"I think he's talking about us, Glod." Lurtz said to his flag bearer.

"Nah, cap. Just you."

Elrond gave a pointed look at the hecklers. "Bring forth the Ring, Frodo."

The hobbit glanced around at the council, then stepped to the centre of the circle and placed the One Ring on the pedestal.

"So it is true…" someone muttered.

Lurtz spent a moment staring at the ring. It seemed to call out to him, beckoning him with promises of the power it held.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that everyone else was doing the same thing. "Hey, lighten up. It's pretty, sure, but if we melt it down I think we could add a gemstone."

Glod nodded sagely. "It's probably not even real gold. Gold is soft enough you can mark it with your teeth, and that's the best way to check."

Several of the men, elves and dwarves sitting in the circle blinked, shaking their heads as if to clear them.

"Besides, it's not exactly faithful. Was everyone else getting the promises of power? Because if we all were, it's the most promiscuous thing I've seen since that night at the inn three years ago!"

A nervous laugh rippled around the circle, and the spell was broken. Lurtz raised his hand. "Does anyone have a cloth? Because I think if we're going to discuss that thing, it'd be better if we weren't being distracted."

"Of course." Elrond looked surprised at the suggestion, but drew a sheet of silk out and draped it over the Ring. As it disappeared from sight, everyone let out a relieved sigh.

"It's powerful, isn't it…" Legolas murmured.

Elrond called the meeting to order. "I think we may have gotten ahead of ourselves. Does anyone have anything to bring to the table before we discuss the ring itself?"

Several did, and over the course of the next hour the Dwarves recounted strange messengers promising the return of some of the Seven rings, Boromir told of his prophetic dreams, Legolas reported that Gollum had escaped, and Gandalf gave his side of the events in Isengard.

Lurtz followed along with interest, occasionally snorting as Gandalf reported something that he clearly didn't yet fully understand. The Wizard was bright enough that he'd doubtless put much of it together once he had the appropriate context, but he seemed to think Saruman was teaching a form of fire magic used to generate smokescreens to the Uruks.

_Irony is that I'd prefer some kind of smokeless powder. Isens are very good, but the smoke they put off is just too noticeable._

"And what say you, master Uruk?"

"Oh, my apologies. Rest assured that we oppose the shadow as much as any here, and that we are preparing to begin active operations to defend both the Gap of Rohan and areas further east, such as the Dale."

"Indeed?" Bilbo asked. "I remember them. Very nice people, but a bit low in numbers."

"If they have a regiment or two of Isen forces, they'll hold. I hope that we can count on the Woodland Realm to prevent Dol Guldur from pressuring the Dale, though?"

Legolas looked uncertain for a moment, then nodded. "We have stopped the forces of Sauron from leaving that fortress for hundreds of years. We can hold another year."

"Aside from that, I have other important news. Two of the Dwarven Rings are no longer intact."

Several of the dwarven contingent gasped. "What! Why, how?"

"Lord Saruman had found them over the course of his studies and wanderings. Since the One Ring's power depends on that of the other Rings of Power and vice versa, he determined to weaken Sauron in the most direct way available. As for how, the Dwarven rings are lesser in potency than the One, and our new smelting methods are at least as hot as molten rock. They took more heat than one might anticipate, but eventually became soft and scratched, and after that the enchantment was broken and they melted."

Elrond and Gandalf both made slight movements with their hands towards their ring fingers, but caught themselves. "I see. You may have done us all a great service, then."

"Nah, the great service is what we did to the Nazgul. They're completely horseless, and still alive. It'll take them months to make it to Dol Guldur, whereas if they were dead they could have travelled in spiritual form."

"Indeed. Now, to the main issue. What is to be done with the ring?"

"Destroy it." Lurtz answered promptly.

Gandalf agreed. "As strange as it is for me to agree with an Uruk after what happened in Isengard, there is no doubt that the Ring must be destroyed. It contains too much cruelty, malice and will to dominate for it to be used for good." The aged Wizard then looked down. "As the last of the great Dragons is slain, our only choice is to drop it into the crack of doom. While the smelters of Isengard may indeed carry more heat, the mountain is also a place of great and old magic. It will attack the spells making the ring impervious to heat and damage, rendering it vulnerable."

Boromir shook his head. "Getting the Ring into Mordor would be impossible without an army greater than any that can be spared. It is impossible."

Legolas jumped to his feet. "The ring must be destroyed!"

"And I suppose you'll be the one to-"

"And if we fail, we have-"

Lurtz watched incredulously as dozens of seasoned diplomats, counsellors, wise men and generals began arguing with scarcely more restraint than a tavern brawl.

Glancing aside, he noticed that the only people not involved in the argument were his colour party, Aragorn, Elrond… and the hobbit, Frodo. The young man was staring at the sheet that covered the ring as if he could hear something.

Lurtz walked over, a short trip, and shook his shoulder. "You okay?"

"No. It's… speaking, but it seems like only I can hear it. I think it's… making them argue." Frodo's resolve firmed. "I'll take it. Nobody can claim the Hobbits are after an advantage. But I need to let them know that, they'll never hear me over this racket."

The Uruk gave a grin. "That, I can handle. Cover your ears."

With a smooth, practiced series of motions, he drew his pistol, snapped open the chamber, removed the breech safety and the lead bullet itself, closed it and fired the now-blank round into the air.

Everyone in the Council flinched violently at the unfamiliar BOOM, as the energy of the gunpowder all went into noise rather than propelling the bullet.

"I will take it!" Frodo called into the sudden silence.

* * *

><p>"We are the Fellowship of the Ring."<p>

"Great." Pippin said brightly. "Where are we going?"

Lurtz hadn't volunteered, deciding to stay with his company. This, however, he could handle, and took a map from his pack. "I think we can help with that."

"This map is marvellous." Boromir said quietly, tracing the paper as Lurtz unfolded it and laid it on the pedestal. "How long did it take to draw?"

"About five minutes. Lord Saruman has this lovely invention called a printing press. It took about a week to make the original, but each successive map after that is a matter of minutes." Lurtz pointed to Rivendell. "Now, the major obstacles are the Misty Mountains and the mountains circling Mordor. There are a few passes through both the former and the latter, but they're high and narrow."

"Let's approach the problem of the Misty Mountains first. I see three options. North, south or through."

"Going north would take the fellowship too far into the territory of the Orcs around Gundabad. I don't doubt your prowess, but crossing the spurs of the mountains will either take months hugging the slopes, or involve passing too close to their towns. Not to mention the possibility of being caught in a war for territory."

"I don't think south is the best idea either." Gandalf weighed in. "Most of the crossing points of the Anduin beyond the Gate of Kings are active points of contact between Mordor and Gondor, and crossing through Mirkwood or Fangorn is ill-advised at the best of times – even assuming that Isengard is safe."

"I'll let that go, Wizard. What about to the south of the White mountains?"

"Through the fiefdoms?" Boromir asked. "Tempting."

"Too long, and – no offence, Boromir – I think there's too much chance that some of the men of Gondor would take the Ring to use themselves."

Boromir cast his eyes down. "I must admit, my desire for it was powerful. And Gondor's status as a land constantly besieged makes the thought more tempting still."

"So, what of the passes? There is the Redhorn, the High pass and the Gladden."

"And Khazad-Dum!" Gimli added. "We've not heard from them in years, but the hold still cuts across the entire mountain chain!"

"True. The High pass is too dangerous, it's too obvious a route and the control of the Beornings has been driven back too far east in recent years."

"The Gladden?"

"The Gladden pass is treacherous and unsafe, especially in winter. We would have to delay months to let it thaw."

"Too long. It seems the choice is Caradhras or Moria."

Lurtz agreed, and traced a line from the Dimrill Dale. "Either way, you come out here. Then to Lothlorien, and take the Andiun to Amon Hen, and from there to the Black Gate." He rolled up the map with a flourish. "I'll take my men and make my way to the Dimrill Dale through the High pass, to draw off any other forces. If it turns out that the worst is true, and Moria has fallen to the Goblins, we'll do what we can to make it safe for you."

* * *

><p>AN: Okay, that's the second chapter. And sorry, everyone, for having spent so long without posting anything. I blame it on the Dissertation.<p>

I did wonder why the Fellowship didn't head west of the White mountains - especially since a route like that could avoid Isengard and the Misty Mountains both - but I think the explanation I give here at least makes sense.

As might be clear, a lot of the action here is going to take place in very different locations to the original series. In fact, usually it'll be the places that are elided in the books and hardly even mentioned in the films.

Oh, and the thing with Rohan is pretty much accurate to the setting. The Horse-Lords have a chequered history and it's hard not to sympathize with the Dunlending viewpoint. I don't know why they didn't just spread out into Enedwaith (which by the way is just remarkable - an area around the size of a western European country with a complete lack of population except on the coast?) but presumably pride played a role.


	3. Chapter 3

"You are willing to defend us? For what in return?"

"King Brand of the Dale," Retzen replied, "My Lord Saruman does not offer to lend our aid to you in return for some surrender of sovereignty. He wishes your kingdom to be intact, and a trade partner, and will defend it for the simple reason that is it being attacked."

The Northman ruler sat back on his throne a little, observing the tall Uruk.

"Forgive my presumption, but to me this sounds like nothing more than a ploy to get your kind within my walls in force, to overwhelm the defenders without need of a long siege."

"Your Majesty, with all due respect, we wouldn't need to resort to trickery. Dale itself is fortified with a curtain wall, and any artillery battery of the Army of the Hand could knock it down in a day. It's one of the main weaknesses of a solid wall, it can shatter." Retzen shrugged, noticing that Brand was getting more annoyed by the second. "But in any case, the armies of Rhûn will be on the move by the spring thaw. We can stop them before or after they level your kingdom, and in order to do the former we need local logistical support. Food, in short, for which we can pay in good gold. Food and shelter."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I expect it to happen. What I have laid out is the barest truth, and it defines what will transpire. If we receive our support, we will fight Rhûn in the spring, with your kingdom at our back. If we do not, we will fight Rhûn in the summer, barely to the east of Mirkwood, with your kingdom burning at their back and your proud history ashes in the wind."

Brand stared at the Uruk envoy, then chuckled. "Certainly full of confidence. Tell me, what kind of remuneration are we talking about?"

"Market value in Minas Tirith as of the last harvest for the food, and we'll bivouac in your border forts near the campaign area." He replied promptly. "We tend to make our own camps, but a windbreak and a stout wall on top of that is never a bad thing."

"I see. And the size of this prospective army?"

"One infantry regiment, one dragoons regiment and an artillery battery. Call it three thousand fighting soldiers, a hundred support troops and seventeen hundred Wargs – though the Wargs can eat almost anything. Fish, mash… Alternatively, of course, we could hire hunters who know the area to obtain some of the food. Could be a useful way to get your elite bowmen back into the habit."

"And now logistical advice. You are a strange sort." Brand sat back on his throne. "Very well, Uruk. You have given me hardly a choice but to accept, after all. I would recommend you travel to the confluence of the River Running and the Redwater – that is our most southerly border fort."

"My thanks, King Brand." Retzen bowed, then turned to leave and began calling out orders. "Okay, lads! We've got a long way to go, down the Celduin and across Rhovanion, and we need a line of march mapped out for three thousand with artillery!"

Unseen by the Uruks, Brand nodded approvingly – the Dalemen prized action, and those who led from the front where possible. It was one of the reasons their ties with Gondor were less close than they could have been – though Denethor's sons were fighting captains with few peers, the elderly Steward himself showed signs of the onset of decadence.

* * *

><p>"Oh, fireless outer dark! How stupid are these idiots?" Lurtz roared, as he shot a Goblin in the torso and Fenca ripped another in half.<p>

His platoon had been fighting their way through the High Pass for hours now, often able to break off and rest but never quite able to break contact.

"Any more casualties?"

"No, captain!" came the reply. "Glod's not gotten any worse, either, and his Warg's keeping pace. But we're going to have ammunition issues if this keeps up too much longer."

"I know! I set up a meeting point for a fast resupply convoy with the help of Wyrda and the Wizard a few hours ago, so we'll be able to handle that!"

Lurtz glanced up. "Speaking of which…" he stopped, nudged Fenca to her knees, snapped a new round in and shot a distant Cave Troll in the eye, "How much further to the apex?"

One of the crows - Wyrda - dropped from the sky, and spoke in a harsh Westron. "Around a mile!"

"Right!" he called back. _Okay, the wargs can jog fairly fast, a mile in about three minutes. And after that, we can head down the other side as far as possible… yes._

"Musician, sound _Rally to me _and then _at a trot_! Bannerman, banner up!" The command group cleared the area around them with pistol shots, and the brassy notes of their trumpet sang out. Lurtz kneed Fenca into a slightly resentful trot, and the other dragoons of the recon platoon began to stream forward, headed east towards the highest point on the pass.

By now the entire platoon were thoroughly conversant with the Isen, and rode with the chambers open to cool down the breech in the frigid air, reducing the chance of an extraction jam in the future. Those who had expended their pistols also reloaded them from their ammunition pouches, which by this point were only about half full, and the second of three at that.

By Lurtz' count they had to have killed about half a division of Goblins, but that was the problem with these long running battles – there wasn't enough impact. And while three or four Cave Trolls were dead over the course of the battle, each one had gone down as a singleton.

Only a few goblins on the apex itself. Lurtz slid his sabre from the sheath, and flashed it in the air. It drew the attention of the goblins, and a jink to the side spoiled their aim with their first arrows.

A _crack_ from behind him, and two of them collapsed. Probably Edel, he liked lining up trick shots and had the skill for them – there was a knack to shooting accurately from a running warg. The key was that while in midair, there was no jolting from the footfalls of the big animal.

Lurtz' sabre took a third as he passed, and in his peripheral vision he saw the rest of the platoon cut down the remainder.

"Sound _At a charge_! One mile, lads, then we turn and give the wargs rest while _we_ do some of the work!"

* * *

><p>Fenca slid clumsily to a halt over the light snow, chest heaving. Lurtz dismounted, knelt and brought up his rifle. As he'd hoped, the fastest and most enthusiastic of the warband – <em>warband, more like a bloody army – <em>had come on ahead, including three more trolls.

"Edel! Moritz! Take the left and right trolls, on my order! I'll hit the centre one! Everyone else, volley on my second order!"

The indicated troopers aimed carefully, and Lurtz did the same. The up-angle on this shot was steep enough that he had to aim at least partly by feel, but he'd become very accustomed indeed to doing that over the last couple of days.

_Three… two… one…_

"Fire." He said quietly, but loudly enough for the troopers, and all three rifles cracked as one.

A second later, the middle and left trolls collapsed, dead. The one on the right stumbled, tripped, and began to roll down the steep reverse slope and over a number of steep cliffs, ending up just as dead as the others.

"Everyone, aim! Fire!"

This time the cracks were a little more spread out, but the effect was just as devastating. Nearly thirty goblins fell, and the remainder looked suddenly apprehensive.

"Aim! Fire!"

The rifles continued methodically working through the formation.

"Any of them that start to run, don't aim for them! Go for the enthusiastic bastards, fire!"

After another two volleys, the goblins suddenly seemed to grasp as a mass that running over a mile to attack people who could still kill you from that far away was a job for someone else, and recoiled back before turning in rout.

Lurtz continued watching as the panic spread up the slope, and over the apex.

"I think we can continue at a walk now, gentlemen. And I have to admit," he chuckled, "It's probably for the best the Fellowship didn't come this way. Someone dress and bind Glod's wounds, we'll handle them properly tonight."

* * *

><p>"These are the rapidguns?" Saruman asked, looking one over.<p>

He already knew the answer, of course. Central had presented him with the design early on, and – with modifications to "correct flaws in initial design" – recommended it with what would probably have been enthusiasm, in any but the "computer".

The artisan had six of them to show him, having finished the construction earlier that day.

He held up a plate with thirty-five slots in it. "Yes, lord Saruman. This is the baseplate, and standard cartridges fit in there. One turn of the crank is all thirty five shots, about ten degrees per shot so there's the ability to "walk" the fire along a target by movement. And it weighs less than a quarter that of a field gun, so a couple of infantrymen can push it around without too much trouble."

"Good, good. A demonstration?"

The rapidgun was wheeled over to the firing range nearby – backed with hard pine, this was a testing area rather than a place for accurate target shooting – and put in place. First, the crew used a pair of blank plates to run through a firing drill. They were able to replace the plate, fire off the complete run of shots with a series of staccato clicks, and remove it again in only about the same length of time it took to fire an Isen rifle.

"Am I right in marking that as nearly three hundred and fifty rounds a minute? And these barrels are rifled, so the shot will have as much punch as a rifle bullet?"

"Indeed, Lord. The barrels are actually longer, preventing gas escape, so the rotation will be more even and the rapidguns will have more range, be faster when they hit the target, that sort of thing."

**Observe.**

Some battlefield from that magic-poor other world Central showed so much of. An army with pointed helmets and breech loading rifles, supported by steel artillery, advancing into a murderous hail of rifle fire.

**Chassepots. Bolt action.**

Then the _miltrailleuse_ began firing, and entire companies' worth of men were punched down in seconds.

**First truly rapid fire weapon. Doctrine poor, weapon design unreliable, ammunition insufficient. Still nearly won the battle.**

**Maximum range 2000 yards. At around half range or less, able to kill many men with one bullet.**

Saruman blinked away the vision. "Now a live fire test, please. Walk the fire over a small angle."

The operators went to it, inserting a loaded plate and turning the crank. With a _braaaaap_, the pine backstop sprouted a series of craters over a narrow arc.

The rapidgun was quickly reloaded with a blank plate, and the party went over to examine the results.

"Aule…" the artisan muttered to himself absently. "That's almost twice the depth an Isen gets."

"It seems that this weapon meets my approval." Saruman said lightly. "I think they would be best employed as company or platoon support weapons, with an extra warg assigned to each such unit to carry the gun and ready ammunition both. So advise the logistics department."

"At once, lord."

"Oh, and I think this weapon needs a formal name. The Lune." A smile graced his lips for a moment. "Perhaps we should make it official – weapon names are to be taken from the names of rivers. The big field pieces are to be the Anduin gun and the Branduin mortar, and the new revolvers are Limlights. Are there any I have missed?"

"Grenades?" One of the demonstration crew asked.

"No, I think we'll just designate guns. In any case, good work and keep it up."

* * *

><p>The recon platoon rode into their planned resupply point, to encounter a large force waiting for them – about twice the size of their own.<p>

The Uruk at the head saluted. "Second and third platoon, reporting, commander. The Wizard decided to send some of the best dragoons to you now that the other regiments are reaching up into battalion size. We've also got you more supplies, ammunition and these." A second soldier heaved a crate to the floor. "Revolvers. We got word from a crow yesterday that they were designated Limlights. They're rifled, sighted to about fifty metres, and they take standard ammunition."

"Good to know, we had a nasty experience with some goblins a few days ago and this sets my mind at rest. Now, we're off to the Dimrill Dale. Standard camp overnight, now we have the soldiery to construct it."

The two platoon lieutenants nodded their understanding, and the company rode out under their fluttering banner.

* * *

><p>Saruman's eyes snapped open.<p>

"Trouble."

The Wizard entered the map room at a swift walk, and snapped his fingers. Light spread over the map, before resolving into two points.

Three of his First Ten followed him in, and a number of aides. "What is it, lord?"

"Here," he pointed at the slopes of Carhadras, "The Fellowship have been driven off the Redhorn pass and are being forced to take the route down into Moria. They will not find it easy going, whether or not some remnant of the Khazad dwarves exist. Fortunately I can alert Lurtz and his Longsights, so they may be able to draw the goblins off. What worries me about this is the fell force from the mountain that caused the blizzard – I fear that another Maiar is awake."

He turned his attention to the other marker, in the Westfold. "This, however, is more of a problem. Crows alerted me to it not an hour ago. Eomer, third marshal of the mark, is building a substantial force here. I can see no reason for this concentration, since he is lord of Aldburg, well to the east – but for an attack on the Dunlending people. Their supplies that they have brought with them on their recent migration include their seed corn, and if they are scattered, their crops and seed corn burned… they will starve."

His tone changed. "More to the point, though, it is a clear and direct violation of his king's order to stand down. This I will not tolerate. I want the Hammers of Dawn and the Flameseekers ready to move to the nearest ford of the Isen to that concentration. Get the Flameseekers to take one infantryman each on their mounts. And I want three artillery batteries over there as well – mainly canister and case shot. Logistics division, prepare the supplies and materiel for a march out as soon as possible."

"Are you sure, lord?" Mauhúr asked. "The Hammers of Dawn are the only Infantry regiment up to full strength."

"I am, Colonel. I need – absolutely _need_ – to make a strong statement here in Rohan. Hopefully that kind of force size will allow you to wipe this army _out_. The world must see that Isengard's word is steel." His face softened, slightly. Marginally. "I realize that this will be hard to organize, and that your dragoons will be tired and annoyed with the infantry. But you'll have enough Limlights for one each. Take three hundred rounds each, I can't imagine you needing much more. Oh, and if a force of substantial size escapes the kill, hunt them down. You and one gun per company, I think – that's two thirds of the artillery in total. If they reach a fortress, invest it and await my arrival with a Death Dealer battalion – the cavalry can move fast enough that I should be there before Theoden." Saruman wrote out instructions on two leaves of paper, then rolled them up and handed them to Mauhúr. "The first one is Lugdush's instructions, the second are your own."

"By your order, Lord." Mauhúr said, saluting, then left the room at a jog.

Saruman turned. "Uglúk, I take it you heard that?"

"I did, Lord. What of Lune rapidguns, and do you want the artillery mix to include Branduins?"

"Lunes will be with the infantry in battle, but yes – one for each company. And field-artillery-wise, Anduins only. I can't see mortar fire being useful against cavalry, too much movement for overshot-undershot, and they're too slow to register for the purposes. No, the field guns will be enough. You sorted the problem with draft animals, as I recall?"

"Yes. Some of the Wargs without the stiff spine to bear a rider. They're eager to help – smart beasts, they've assigned 'army' as their ultimate pack and they want to earn their membership. I'm putting one riding Warg in the hitches for the gun commander, and the rest can ride the caisson."

"By your order. Oh, and the Dale?"

"Lunes in the same ratio – no, two per company if you can manage it by the time Retzen gets back. As for the field artillery, both Anduins and Branduins, it's going to be siege warfare up there, I just know it. And see if Ternak has those Yurgs of his properly trained up, since the expeditionary force will be operating on the end of a long supply route. The important thing is to have enough ammunition."

"Of course. Not much point in six thousand Uruks trying to beat back an army from the east with short spears."

"I am glad you understand." Saruman turned away, then back again. "That reminds me. Remember to tell Skara to send one of her companies with each force. There will be wounded, even if only by someone slicing their thumb open. And we need to avoid disease, as well."

**Chloramphenicol.**

_Explain._

**Efficacious antibiotic drug. Simple production. Side effects rare, though fatal – in humans. Evidence gathered of Uruk physiology suggests generalization possible.**

**Observe.**

A process unfolded in his mind.

_This will take some time to establish._

**Commence preparation soon, Saruman. Predictions indicate main campaign will begin by early March, confidence 80%.**

_Understood._

Saruman opened his eyes, the shimmer in them fading. "And have Kerkú and Marek report to me. I need them to give me a cadre for the creation of more regiments. We will have need of them ere long."

* * *

><p>One of the benefits of the rigorous training the Isengard forces undertook was that setting up for their long march was a matter of a few hours, though they were hours of bedlam in Isengard and across much of the Vale as hard-voiced NCOs assigned infantry platoons to dragoon platoons.<p>

There were almost half as many Wargs in the logistics tail as in the army, carrying hardtack, mash and ammunition, but their sheer endurance – being descended in the main from predators that could literally run their prey to exhaustion – meant that they could carry the Uruks and men and dwarves of the artillery and logistics sections, rather than having them walk alongside as a human army would be forced to with this much equipment.

It was barely midday by the time Morna and Giren padded alongside one another. Lugdush gave Mauhúr a look from atop Morna, and Mauhúr returned it. Their orders had said to settle the issue of command amongst themselves, but quickly.

After a few seconds, Lugdush shrugged. "Hells with it. You're providing the legs for this march."

Mauhúr grinned, and raised his sabre. The two colour parties raised their flags in response – a tongue of flame reaching across a field of gold, and a sunburst topped by a smith's hammer. Both had a second flag, the flag denoting their allegiance – the white hand and the hammer.

"By the left… ahead, at the trot!"

Trumpets blew. The wargs understood the signal almost as well as their riders, from hours of training. Those on the artillery hitches were less versed in the army ways, but took their cue from the single trained saddle-warg among each group.

Mauhúr signalled one of the scout platoons over. "Ahead at the canter, you lot, find us a good route for the artillery. Follow the river for the most part."

"We shall not fail you." One of the men in the group said, and the rest of the platoon nodded. They set off at the ground-eating lope that lightly loaded wargs could manage – his own force was limited by the speed of the artillery, but he would reach the low ford of the Isen in three days even with that limitation.

* * *

><p>"I understand, and thank you."<p>

The crow nipped at Lurtz' finger affectionately, and flew off.

"Right, everyone. We're only fifty miles or so from the Dimrill Dale, and we need to get there fast. Reach into Moria itself, if we can. The Fellowship is going to be in grave danger, according to the lord Wizard something stirs in the deep. At a lope!"

The trumpets gave a brassy snarl, ordering the Wargs into the fast trot-canter that no horse could imitate.

"Do we have the ammunition?" one of his platoon lieutenants asked, as they began to lope again.

"If I lead a dwarf-Uruk platoon into Moria with revolvers and Wargs – the Wargs have good enough night vision for that, better than the Goblins I would wager, and ours is better than humans – then with double loads and enough speedloaders we could kill thousands, and scare off thousands more besides. We have some refugees from the dwarf-hold, don't we? From the time the goblins came over the mountains into Dimrill?"

"Yes, sir. One in my platoon, and a few in yours."

"Good. Send them to me, I'll see what I can tease from their memories about the layout and the likely route the Fellowship will take."

"Actually, Sir." Glod interjected, the colour sergeant pulling his own Warg alongside, "I can tell you almost half their route straight away. The Fellowship includes one Gimli, does it not? His kinsman Balin fell in battle when the Goblins came, and before my detachment was cut off they had already determined where the tomb was to be. The Chamber of Mazarbul, the chamber of records, where his throne was in life."

"Will the Dwarves still hold out?"

"I want to hope, but I cannot say it is likely. There were so many Goblins." Glod's arm cradling the banner to keep it upright did not waver, but his eyes glistened wetly. "I did not want to speak at the council of Elrond, for Gimli was so passionate – and who knows? – but if they live, they are under siege. They would never abandon the chamber, though. Head there and we will find who else lives in Moria, other than goblins and Durin's Bane."

Lurtz nodded his appreciation. "Thank you, Sergeant. Such is a great help. I hope the wound has healed?"

"Yes, mostly. I can't swing an axe or blade, but I can reload."

Lurtz gauged him for a moment. "I may as well assign you to keep the banner up anyway. The Fellowship saw it in Rivendell, and they'll need something to let them know we're friendlies."

"As you say, sir."

* * *

><p>Lurtz crawled up the reverse slope. Graz was following him, looking disapproving – this was no task for the regimental commander, never mind that the regiment was only company strength! – but resigned.<p>

Fenca lay at the bottom of the last segment of rise, looking anxiously after her rider, and occasionally cuffing the other Warg when he made an unusually loud noise. Mounts for leaders were selected carefully, and generally the organization chart of the regiment was reflected in the pack standings of their Wargs.

After a few minutes, the Uruk reached the top and took out his telescope. Staying belly-down on the reverse side of the drainage divide – fairly sharp-edged, in this near bare-rock area – he swept his view slowly over the Dimrill Dale.

"I make it about two, three thousand Goblins. No trolls. That's counting the ones visible in the hills as well as roaming the valley floor, but there might be more elsewhere." Graz whispered.

"Looks like it. They _are_ riled up by something – this reminds me of nothing less than an ant's nest."

"The…" Graz paused. There was some superstition in his reluctance to speak, but more pragmatism. One never knew the powers of a given Maiar. "The Bane?"

"I believe so. Gandalf's passing near would likely have alerted it, even without the Ring."

"So, what's our plan?"

"Fairly standard feigned retreat, I think. And down there, nearer the woods. There's a lovely little slope that's high enough to conceal forces on the other side, and shallow enough to pose little difficulty to troop movement."

"I like this plan already."

Lurtz gauged the angle of the sun – it was already late, and shadows had begun sweeping across the Dale. "Not tonight, though – tomorrow morning. That way they'll be attacking into the sun."

* * *

><p>"Men of Rohan!" Éomer called out, to the Eorlingas he had assembled at the small hill fort of Westhallow. "We have come together to protect our people!"<p>

"All of you have suffered harshly from the raids of the Wild men of Dunland, who have always looked upon us with jealousy. They pillage and burn our lands from across the Isen, and long has their hill fastness denied us of our chance to strike back at their own farms!" He paused, letting the grievances of the Rohirrim come to the surface – though not truly consciously. It was more that he was remembering his own experiences with the wildmen that led to the pause.

"I tell you that this will be no longer! The great mass of their warriors has come far from Dunland, where they may be driven away and will trouble us no more!"

One of his sworn men called to him. "Why are they so far from their homes?"

"They and the traitor Saruman have beguiled our king, with sweet words and subtle lies, and seek to cross at the low fords to ravage the Westfold, to cut us off from Helm's Deep, and to ruin our country! They have seen their chance with the greater mass of our warriors moved from the west to defend against Mordor, and seek to capture half the country in a vise – them and the foul Orc-kind from Isengard. We must fight this jaw, which is the weaker, and gain the time to turn our full strength against the stronger."

He looked out over the great host. One quarter of the home-levy of Rohan had turned out to answer his call, three thousand men in twenty-five Éored.

He could not delay much longer – it was likely his uncle was riding to stop him. But his uncle was blinded by the wiles of Saruman – he had to race to destroy the Dunlending before he was stopped.

_Now._ He could delay no longer, and mounted Firefoot as the dawn broke.

"We ride!"

* * *

><p>Second platoon of the Longsights reconnaissance regiment rode forward at an easy trot up the Dimrill Dale, rifles out of their sheaths but unloaded.<p>

"Easy, lads…" their platoon commander said, and waved back a few who were edging forward. "Take your dressing from the flag, that's what it's there for."

The wayward troopers complied, dropping back slightly, and the lieutenant nodded his satisfaction. The line looked like it had been drawn in ink, with the forty or so troopers covering nearly a hundred metres of front.

They'd been seen now. The goblins were starting to react, though by the looks of it they weren't yet clear what they were reacting to.

Closer. They were now at about a thousand metres distance from the enemy.

"Trumpeter, sound _firing line._"

The trumpets blared into the lifting fog, and the wargs slowed smartly to a stop, then crouched. The troopers dismounted, but remained standing, and walked five paces forward. As one, they unbuttoned their ammunition pouches – leather, with canvas straps for the 11mm rounds within.

"Load hollow point!"

Every soldier opened the breech, thumbed in a round, and closed it.

"Range, seven hundred metres!"

The goblins were approaching, and were at about seven hundred and fifty by the lieutenant's guess. At this range, the sight had to be raised, and the leaf notch lifted to the desired level.

"Pick your targets!"

The rifles came up.

"Fire!"

Forty five rifles barked as one, producing a comb of fire stabbing towards the front of the goblin forces.

"Reload, independent fire, slow fire! Pick your shots!"

Independent fire lacked the morale effect of precisely timed volleys. In this case, that was the point – not only did doing this let the soldiers blow into the breeches to cool them down and prevent extraction jams, but it also meant the goblins were more likely to keep coming.

One of the goblins now approaching the first piles of dead at seven hundred metres was larger than normal, wearing armour that had metal bits to it. At the sight, a slight ripple occurred as around half the rifles in the platoon aimed at him.

"Get some fire dispersion!" The platoon sergeant screamed, in the kind of volume that only comes to NCOs. Most of the troopers who had been tempted aimed their rifles elsewhere, and the rounds crashed out. The chieftain fell, as did three or four around him.

The goblins in the centre were starting to recoil, simply because they were the ones who saw the carnage directly and who could work out they were in the danger zone. The flanks, meanwhile, were starting to curve around, naturally forming a potential envelopment. The lieutenant judged it…

"Trumpeter! Sound _Retreat in good order!_"

Before the notes had finished being played, most of the soldiers had already fired their last shot and moved back to their mounts, which had turned around at the order itself. Army wargs recognized most of the commands they drilled on.

Within three seconds of the order, the platoon was moving to the rear at a fast lope. This kind of fluid mobility was one of the most advantageous things a rifle-armed dragoon unit could have, as it allowed them to reopen the separation for their guns at a moment's notice.

This time, though, they needed to appear beaten, so after opening the distance with the flanking units to beyond bow shot they slowed the Wargs to a walk. Whereas conventional doctrine would have them catch the goblins in the killing zone no fewer than two more times before they reached the crest, and move much faster at that, they ended up piling over the crest no more than a thousand metres ahead of the goblins.

Lurtz chuckled at their clearly exaggerated panic, and peeked over the hill at the goblins. Like a red rag to a bull, they kept coming.

A few seconds, to let the second platoon come about and dress their lines, then…

"Forward!"

The tactic of the reverse slope was one of the first Central had shown to Saruman. It was devastating for many reasons, chief among them the shock of a retreating enemy reappearing, steady and multiplied.

One hundred and thirty-seven rifles went up this time. "Fire! Volley fire, by platoons!"

The Isen rifle was good, in an emergency, for a volley every five seconds in the hands of veterans. Veterans, some of these troopers were, but not all – and in any case this was hardly an emergency. Nevertheless, the goblins had almost a half mile to cover – not very far, unless the enemy is pouring well over a thousand heavy and accurate rounds a minute into your formation.

In the end, it took barely a minute and a half for the goblins to break and run. Not all of them at once, but once as their flanks were rebuffed by first and third platoons, they only had the one axis of advance – and as soon as their front line began to break, they unravelled completely.

Foolish of them. Running simply meant they had to cross the killing zone again. Another five volleys slammed out from the gun line, before Lurtz signalled the musician.

"Sound _pursuit._"

This trumpet-tone was one of the Warg's favourite orders. They were predators, and recently at that. The whole line knelt, letting their riders on, then bounded forward to catch the fleeing goblins as the riders drew steel. Those who turned at the cessation of the loud crashing volleys saw over a hundred Wargs in full bay, and turned to run again.

Twenty minutes after the first shot, no goblins remained in the Dimrill Dale, and most of those who had been present were running for their lives.

"They might make Mount Gundabad, by the looks of them!" Glod said with a note of satisfaction.

"They might, at that." Lurtz agreed, then clapped his hands to gain attention. "Second and third platoon, set up earthworks in front of the gate to Khazad-dum. Facing both ways – we might be leaving in a mighty hurry. Keep everything on the saddlebags and get your ammunition pouches refilled once we're gone. First, as soon as we've refilled our pouches we're for Moria. Get the speedloaders ready to hand and loaded, and in general be ready for fast action in confined spaces."

* * *

><p>The East Gate rose before first platoon, ten minutes later. It was a vast thing, built such that only with great effort could it be moved from outside – it appeared as though it would take many men to move even from within.<p>

Lurtz gazed at it for a moment. "How the hell is this thing practical? I can't even see the seam! I suppose it must all be very impressive, but…"

Glod chuckled. "You wonder how to get it open, without someone on the other side? I have a plan. It'll take precise timing, though. Four Wargs, pushing on the door at once and sharply, then they back off sharply. That should make the door bounce off the stops and come out a little."

"Right. Pick the soldiers and carry it out, sergeant."

* * *

><p>The four steadiest wargs in the platoon walked up to the door after a quick explanation, their riders next to them and their saddles and bags removed for the moment.<p>

"Hup!"

All four predators lifted their forequarters and staggered forward a step, then slammed them down on the East Gate with a single BOOM, bounced off and fell backwards. They quickly twisted themselves back upright, yelping their displeasure but calming under the attentions of their riders.

Glod walked past them and inserted his knife into the tiny crack between the doors, wedging them open. "Right. Now, I need some cord. If I can manage this just right, I can widen the gap to the point a hand will fit in."

* * *

><p>Ten minutes of engineering work (and a lot of rifle shots to spall off fragments on the doors, to gain a rough surface to grip) later, the East Gate was finally open.<p>

The platoon rode into the First Hall of Moria. Sadly for Glod, their efforts did not attract the attention of any dwarves. There was evidence of many dwarves present, but it was all the detritus of battle.

"I wonder how the Goblins gained the gate?"

"Probably some passages down from the Redhorn pass, and they opened it from inside. Notice how the gates themselves have nothing surrounding them?"

"Aye…" Glod said quietly. "That seems the only possible course of events. Many a siege has been broken by such methods – or by treachery, in the end."

He pointed down a massive hall, towards the west. "That way. That is the path to Durin's Bridge, past the First Hall."

* * *

><p>"You are kidding me." Lurtz said flatly, staring at the Bridge of Khazad-Dum.<p>

"It's a defensive measure." Glod said, a little piqued.

"That thing's a bloody deathtrap is what it is. Is there any way at all that we can make it safer? At all? Because otherwise we're going to have to leave a squad here with the Wargs, cross in single file and hope that on the way back we're not cut off by faster moving goblins."

"Don't think so, sir. No anchor points for anything big, and we can't get trees that big in any timely fashion. Though I think the columns over there, a few hundred feet of rope and some similar points over here in the First Hall might let us establish a pair of rope guard rails."

"Good. Detail how to set it up to the squad we're leaving here – third – and then let's be going. Lead on to the Chamber of Mazarbul."

* * *

><p>The force – forty-one troopers now, and on foot – climbed a series of stairs, always on the lookout for movement, and listening for the smallest of sounds.<p>

"What is it with you Dwarves and enormous chasms?" Lurtz hissed to his colour sergeant.

"Don't know. Could be that everything else was mined out, could be that it looks impressive, could be chronic health and safety failure."

"Well, I suppose it's at least wide enough to run down in single file, as we'll have to do most likely."

* * *

><p>At the top, there was another of the great halls. Few sounds could be heard, though one trooper reported hearing something from ahead.<p>

"Revolvers out, colours forward. Light three torches." Lurtz said curtly. "And everyone have your sabres ready to hand."

As they got closer, it became clear that they were hearing sobbing. Glod hurried ahead, the rest of the short platoon behind him, and entered the Chamber almost at the same time as the rest of the Fellowship.

Gimli's first response was incredulity and a dawning hope, only to fall back into depression as he realized who it was.

"Fancy meeting you here, Grey Wanderer." Lurtz said casually, walking in behind his sergeant. "You might be interested to know that we've cleared the Dimrill Dale, and two platoons are holding it against possible Goblin reinforcements."

"Ah, Lurtz. A somewhat less comely setting than our last meeting." Gandalf replied evenly.

"The Dimrill Dale was filled with Goblins?" Legolas asked.

"Yes. My estimate is at least a thousand, likely more." Graz put in, as the platoon crowded into the chamber.

"And you drove them off?"

"Killed about half, the rest ran like werewolves were after them." As there would have been, had the battle taken place a month or so later. The Mirkwood packs had accepted Saruman's offer, and were beginning to find their places in Isengard's forces. One proposed role was in the pursuit position, as werewolves were even faster and stronger than Wargs.

Legolas assessed the information. "Presumably, then, the patrols from Lothlorien don't reach this far west, or it's considered futile to try to keep Dimrill clear. I could see either being the case."

"Or it could be that they maintain the pass when it's passable, and retreat into the woods for the winter." Lurtz countered. "Under normal circumstances, the pass wouldn't be considered open this close to the solstice. Well, for us mere mortals anyway. You elves and your walking on snow make it a bit harder to tell."

"That is true." The elf allowed. "And I shall ignore the comment."

"I do that a lot myself."

* * *

><p>Out or respect, the conversation quietened as Gandalf read the last entries in the chronicle of Balin.<p>

The silence was broken by a BANG as Pippin dropped something down a well. At the first retort, most of the troopers drew sabres or unholstered revolvers, before working out where the sound came from.

"_Idiot."_ Lurtz snarled. "We spent all this time and effort making sure we didn't fire our weapons inside Moria, or make more than the smallest noise, and now you wake half the mountain."

"But I thought you said you held the gates." Pippin protested weakly.

"Those gates were dwarven work, impossible to open from outside without breaking them. They were _still intact_. Boy, what does that say about the goblin attack?"

"It… it came around the gates?"

"Yes. All the mountains of Moria are honeycombed with passages. Passages that now contain Goblins, and a passage with a hostile, incarnate, _Maiar_ in. You do not want to wake one of those up."

Pippin was silent for a moment. "I'm sorry, master Orc. I didn't think."

"Which was the problem. But at least you realized it." Lurtz waved him silent.

There was a faint sound of movement, slowly getting closer. From-

"The door." Graz pointed. Lurtz could just make out a force of goblins approaching from the other side of the Twenty-first hall, at least a hundred strong, and with a cave troll.

"Damnation. Okay, I need the members of the Fellowship with military training to form melee reserve. First, Fourth, get the doors closed and knock loopholes in them. Empty your revolvers through them – once only – then fall back and reload with brass points, before switching to Isens."

Lurtz looked at the layout of the room as the screeching of the Goblins grew louder, then quieter again as the doors shut. "First, fourth, once you've used the revolvers form double close firing line opposite the door – fire by ranks, maximum rate. Second, fifth, revolvers, flank the door at an angle. Try and stymie any rush that looks like it's going to make it to the firing line."

Lurtz knelt on the Tomb of Balin, setting his sights to minimum range, and after a moment's hesitation Glod joined him, setting the banner aside. He would take it up again later, but for now it was a matter of close combat, and he could do more good with a rifle.

"Gimli?" He called, and the Fellowship-member looked up.

"Take Balin's axe. You have more claim to it than me. Let's show these miserable goblins that the People of Aule are hard to squash!"

* * *

><p>For a moment, the tomb was relatively quiet, apart from the sounds of the recon troopers' shard blades cutting loopholes and the distant screeching of the Goblins. Then the first axe hit the door.<p>

"Limlights!" Lurtz called, and winced in anticipation.

Over a hundred incredibly loud _BANGS_ sounded in the next few seconds, as every trooper discharged their revolver through one of the three or four loopholes in quick succession. The sound almost but did not quite drown out the splats as the bullets hit flesh on the other side of the heavy oak door.

By the sounds of it, the hollow-point bullets had gone right through the goblins they hit, and probably a few after that.

"That's given them pause. Come on, lads, sharpish!"

The squads he had indicated walked back to the front of the tomb, emptying out the spent brass and replacing it with a new speedloader fitted with brass-tipped, armour piercing ammunition, before forming a staggered double line and bringing up their rifles. They weren't straight this time – at this absurdly short range, every trooper could aim for and make their bullet pass through the loopholes.

"First, fire!"

Ten rounds punched out in a single BANG, and out of the corner of his eye Lurtz noticed that the Hobbits weren't taking the sound well. Well, better deaf than dead.

When the first squad had their first rounds ejected and were taking their second from their pouches, he ordered fourth squad to give fire. The hammering of axes, which had just begun, stopped again.

Legolas snapped off a shot from his bow in the interval between volleys, which passed through one of the small holes and caught another goblin. Lurtz glared at him for a moment, before rolling his eyes. "Any archers who want to contribute, do so between volleys since the bullets are going to smash the arrow if you get it wrong."

Gandalf was staring at the fire teams. "So _that's_ what you were all doing… Some kind of contained explosion that blows the… bullet… forwards? Like the opposite of a firework?"

"Indeed." Lurtz allowed. It was obvious anyway, from the stink of gunpowder hanging in the room. By this point, nearly two hundred 11mm rounds had been fired.

"Slow your rate of fire! We don't want to jam the rifles." He said with regret. "Double the interval."

Edel was digging the brass from a cartridge that had jammed on extraction nevertheless, the softened metal blast-welded poorly to the walls of the chamber. After a few seconds, he gave it up as a lost cause in the time he had – with the longer intervals, the goblins were beating at the door more and more – and slapped the rifle into its' holster, taking out a grenade instead.

"Fix bayonets!" Lurtz shouted, the moment a volley fired. Both lines paused their firing drill to attack the socket bayonet, and just as the "ready" squad finished attaching theirs and brought their guns up, the door gave way.

The front rank fired one last time, and braced their guns on the floor with one hand, taking out their blades with the other. The fence of bayonet points first and fourth produced like this was an effective deterrent to the screaming chargers, and two men at a time from second and fifth began picking off goblins as they attempted to knock the rifles aside.

Discipline was the key, Lurtz knew. Discipline, organization, and drill. If the goblins had been led by a smart commander – if they had much in the way of leadership at all – they'd have poured arrow fire in the second the door went down. At this short a range their battle-dress was less protection, and they might have got lucky enough times to give their melee troops a chance.

Instead-

It was a slaughter. The rifles kept the goblins fixated on the threat, with even the reduced fire of the rear rank able to kill goblins at a steady pace and pick off any that looked especially important, or for that matter any who took their bows out, and the revolvers gunned down any attempt to rush their cohorts.

He gauged the flow of the battle. Always one of the hardest skills for any commander, but he'd tested himself in the previous two engagements with goblins.

There. The flow of the enemy force was starting to ebb. Ordinarily he would order the husbanded revolvers to be fired, to break the enemy, and then a pursuit with bayonets to rout them. But not this time.

And then the reason why not came through the door. A fully grown Cave Troll, bellowing and hefting a club.

"First squad, revolvers!"

With Fourth in front of them still bracing the line against the few remaining goblins, First dropped their rifles, drew their revolvers and fired. Most of them blazed away from the hip – at this range, against this target, it was hard to miss – but a few took the extra half-second to bring the Limlights' iron sights up to their eyes and aim their shots.

In truth, it barely mattered. Around sixty heavy-calibre bullets slammed into the feral creature, blowing great bloody wounds that sent it into shock and death within three seconds of coming through the door.

After that, a ringing silence fell. The only sounds were the faint cries of running goblins, and the tinkle of cartridges as the troopers gathered up their spent brass.

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

This is by now 3019 TA, and things are getting serious. It's actually quite astonishing how fast a lot of the action in The Lord of the Rings takes place - the main battles in the film and the book have all taken place by the end of March.

The Book of Armaments:

* * *

><p>Isen rifle<p>

Breechloading rifle, 11mm calibre, single shot, maximum effective aimed range 1km, maximum firing rate 10 aimed rounds/min. Sword bayonet. Can be fired lying down. Ladder sight, with 50m increments. (Basically a Springfield rifle, though the breech differs in some aspects)

Standard issue ammunition is 50 brass-tipped anti armour rounds, 50 cut-tip ('hollow-point') rounds.

Rounds are carried in a leather bag with a canvas interior and canvas carrying loops.

* * *

><p>Pistol:<p>

Breechloading pistol, 11mm calibre, single shot. Smoothbore. Uses the same rounds as the Isen rifle. Intended as a weapon for a melee, usually carried in pairs or threes.

* * *

><p>Limlight revolver:<p>

As pistol, but six shot and possessed of a slight rifling twist. Made from cut-down rifle barrels.

Speedloaders are issued along with the revolvers, which usually go to cavalry and dragoon units.

* * *

><p>Field gun (Anduin) - fires impact explosive shot, case shot (with timed bursting charge), solid shot or cannister. Under field conditions no solid shot is in the caissons, it being carried in the supply train.<p>

* * *

><p>Siege mortar (Branduin) - fires impact explosive shot or quicklime shot, and a number of speciality rounds such as star shells.<p>

* * *

><p>Rapidgun (Lune)<p>

35-shot miltrailleuse. 2000 yard range, ten salvos/min. Light enough to be handled at a fast walk by two crew.

Barrel is easily constructed out of strapped-together rifle barrels, double length. This 11mm modularity and centralized start simplifies logistics for the Army of Isengard a lot more than happened historically in almost any army - some places still used over 40 carriage wheel types for artillery caissons, _after_ standardization.


	4. Chapter 4

Glod spoke first, coughing in the thick clouds of gunsmoke. "Well, if anything in Moria didn't hear the actions of master Took, they certainly heard that!"

"You're right. Mithrandir, we need to move. As soon as possible. Follow us, we know the way. Second, you're fire by movement if we need it."

Second squad checked the load on their Isens and left their revolvers open to cool down. First and Fourth left both weapons' chambers open, and Fifth also had their revolvers cooling. The fast-paced firefight had left most of the short platoon's guns dangerously hot.

"Fireless dark, I wish the crows could fly in here…" Lurtz said to himself as half the platoon flowed through the same door they had entered, then the other half followed the Fellowship. At a series of hand signals, they formed a cordon to protect the travellers. "I've been spoiled."

For the next few seconds, the only sound was the thudding of boots on stone. Then the column came to a halt at the entrance to the next hall.

"Goblins in the hall." One of the point troopers hissed back.

"How many?"

"Only a few, but more pouring in."

"Right. Everyone, we'll have to take the hall at a run. Through to the stairway as fast as possible." He took a moment, letting the command sink in. "Forward!"

The entire unit broke into a fast jog, pacing themselves as best they could with the knowledge of how much further it was to the exit. The exhilaration of the moment, however, tended to accelerate them past that optimum.

Four of the Uruks bodily picked up the Hobbits, who had begun to fall behind almost immediately.

Arrows began to fly. At this close a range, the goblins' shots could bruise even if they failed to break the chain mail – and all too many did. By the time they reached the other side and a rearguard slammed shots back from their revolvers, several Uruks were sporting minor wounds. And one arrow, fired from high up, had managed to pierce the shoulder of its' target.

Lurtz took one look, caught the eye of the trooper, and shook his head. "That arm's useless now."

"I'd guessed." The trooper grunted out, still running alongside. "Must have been the strongest damned goblin under the mountain, the way it feels."

A deep rumbling began to sound as the party continued their flight. What felt like the entire mountain shook as if in an earthquake, and it was mixed with a sort of snarl.

"It is the Balrog of Morgath." Gandalf said, sounding actually afraid. "A demon from the ancient world. We cannot hope to stop it."

"It's an incarnate Maiar, right?" Lurtz checked. "Can it fly?"

"I do not believe so, no." Gandalf replied, checking his footing as they began to run down the long pillared stairs. "The wings it possesses aid it in a jump and allow it to delay a fall, but they do not support it entirely."

Gunshots boomed out from ahead as the squad Lurtz had sent as vanguard shot down Goblin snipers and reloaded on the run.

"Tell me more about it. What are its' powers, what can hurt it?"

"It is mortal, though barely." Gandalf said, thinking hard. "The powers of a Maiar are limited by the form they have taken." For a moment, the ghost of a smile formed. "Some more limited than others, I admit. The Balrog is aligned with Shadow and Flame. But no weapon I know of could harm it unless reinforced with very strong magic."

"Well, there goes our usual tactic of shooting things to death." Lurtz commented absently, stepping over a crack in the stairs. By now, they were trembling alarmingly as the wrath of the Balrog shook the mountain.

He looked back, and caught a glimpse of the thing itself. Just a sight of fire, roiling in the distance.

He wished he hadn't.

"I have a plan, Mithrandir." He said. "But it's more of an improvisation, and either way there's going to be one angry Balrog around here for a long time to come."

"Such is the way of things." The Wizard said gravely, then breathed a sigh of relief. They'd reached the bottom of the staircase, and the extra solidity of the dwarven stone work appeared to reassure him.

Lurtz ran past, building up into a sprint. Using the width of the second hall to bypass his running troops, he pelted over the Bridge of Khazad-Dum and into the improvised defensive position.

"Sergeant, get the other two platoons to gather as many of their grenades as they can." The occasional shot from outside indicated that Goblins were still trying to retake the gate, but there wasn't the thundering tempo of the massed volleys that would be employed against a charge, so he was fairly confident they could spare the time.

"And get me some fuse cord."

After that, and with the rest of the platoon coming over the bridge, he took a moment to scratch his worried Warg. She leaned into it, sniffed his arm, and quietened down a bit with the proof he was still alive. She could also smell his anxiety, though, so she wasn't all that calm.

"Platoon!" he barked.

The Uruks all stood to attention, though some of them were sheened with sweat. The few Dwarves and Men had taken it rather less well, panting and heaving, but their part of the run was almost over.

"Grenades. Link them with- thank you," the Uruk sergeant he'd spoken to earlier had passed him the fuse cord he asked for, "With this. Build a big pile of them on the bridge. Use a spare ammunition bag or a blanket or something to hold them in place, it only has to be for a few minutes."

With careful deliberation, he loaded a round into his Isen as the troops fell to their work.

"Mithrandir. Go ahead with the Fellowship. If I recall rightly, you next go to Lothlorien, and we are not welcome there. If you plan on riding the Anduin to your destination, we will make a feint at Dol Guldur to distract the Shadow there and then ride East. With hope the association between us will distract Sauron."

"I think we need to talk longer on this, Lurtz of Isengard." Gandalf replied. "It was always my design to plan out the second part of the quest at Amon Hen, from whence can be seen the whole of Middle Earth. Find us there."

Lurtz gave a brief smile. "When the hurlyburly's done, then."

Gandalf chuckled. "I always forget your scholarly ways. A poetic orc-kin… something that most, even of the wise, would say was like a burrowing eagle."

"I'll choose to take that as a compliment."

The ground shook. Lurtz pushed Gandalf's shoulder. "Go."

* * *

><p>"Alright, what's the problem this time?" Lugdush sighed.<p>

"One of the trunion wheels broke." An artillery battery commander replied. "I'm replacing it from the spares, but it'll take ten or so minutes."

"Right. Shift the rest of the batteries forwards in the schedule, you'll have to move to the last slot. We want to waste as little time as possible, since our maps of the region aren't good and we need to put forces at all the potential blocking positions."

Under "normal" circumstances, with a pitched field battle, the Rohirrim would have been utterly annihilated, facing a force equal in number with the heavy Isen rifles. But their objective was to reach and raid a dispersed migration, rather than a specific target – and that meant they could split up into individual Éored and cross the river in several places. Or, more importantly, that they could use _any_ of those places and the infantry had to cover _all_ of them.

Their planned tactics were for each infantry detachment to take a few signal rockets, and call in the dragoons for reinforcement when they sighted the enemy. At the moment they were prepared for those detachments to be company strength and placed at the river, but if the scouts found better places with more command over possible routes that could change.

* * *

><p>The occasional rifle barked from First Squad and felled a questing goblin. Lurtz watched with no little trepidation as they came on.<p>

"It's like they're being driven by fear. They don't actually think they can survive against us, but to their minds staying back is worse."

"May the devil take the hindmost." A soldier chuckled.

"Unfortunately true. That charge?"

"Laid. Thirty grenades total, in a sack and linked together. I put some of the detritus from the hall atop it – metal armour, that kind of thing – to channel the blast downwards."

"Excellent."

Then, with a roar, the Balrog of Moria appeared within the Second Hall. Several of Lurtz' soldiers flinched back from the wall of heat it brought with it.

"Men!" Lurtz bellowed. "The bastard with wings, five rounds rapid!"

As he'd hoped, the familiar order gave them a shield against terror. They felt they were doing something.

Lurtz himself examined the impacts of the stuttering, unusually imprecise volleys carefully. The Balrog did not seem to notice them at first, but the shots that hit it in centre mass punched holes through the darker, cooler skin in a shower of sparks. This revealed the central flames, which themselves were unharmed by all he could see, but it at least showed it was material.

His own first shot hit the sword of fire it had formed, and it cracked slightly. No more than the stone of the mountain, but again encouraging. If he had a few field pieces he might have tried solid shot or canister.

As it stepped onto the bridge-

The radiant heat finally ignited the detonation cord, which burned back to the grenades in a split second. They all went off in a single thunderous blast, and the Bridge of Khazad-Dum fell into the abyss it spanned along with the Balrog.

Lurtz breathed a sigh of relief, then waved to the musician. "Sound _Fall back_. Men, we're off to the northeast to the Gladden Fields, skirting Lothlorien, and then to actions against Dol Guldur."

Most of the soldiers didn't hear at first, still in shock from seeing the Maiar so close. Their Wargs butted them impatiently, freed from their lines, and broke them out of their moods as the trumpets snarled.

* * *

><p>"Lieutenant."<p>

"Sir. No fatalities, five minor wounds from sniping goblins atop the gate – my fault, I should have expected it. Wounds are dressed and shouldn't be an issue."

"Add to that several more flesh wounds and one major. Invalided out, by the looks of him – we'll see if we can link up with the forces headed to the Dale and send him with them, he can always do logistics."

"Ouch. That's harsh. What was it?"

"Shoulder wound. Cut a few of the tendons."

The Lieutenant winced in sympathy. The Isen required two arms to use, at least unless the rate of fire was to be reduced substantially – and a wound like that would be almost as bad as having had the arm cut off, from the point of view of anything major.

"Suppose he could join their scout echelon as well. Nothing wrong with his eyes." Lurtz mused. "Alright, we're moving out. Pick up as much of the brass as you can, we're off in ten minutes."

"Aye, sir. Second, cover third's section of the perimeter! Third, pick up the brass! Come on, lads, we're moving out!"

* * *

><p>Saruman examined the lie of the land. "It is beyond my power to influence the events on the lower Isen, now."<p>

**Command and control is always a major concern. You are advantaged compared to most powers in this time owing to the crows.**

"Indeed. But did I commit enough forces? Or too much?"

**I can not answer. I can only predict.**

**Observe the possibilities.**

-and a dozen artillery shells burst in unison over the charging line of horsemen. The terrible flail of the case shot cut them down in their hundreds, and the rapidguns knifed through the cohesive sections. The Rohirrim broke to run, and hundreds of dragoons thundered past the artillery to pursue them, sabres drawn…

-and a square stood in open ground. The guns vomited flame, cutting down dozens of horse with each volley. Spears and arrows came in from knots of galloping horse that swirled in and out in a classic Rohan raider's tactic, and the numbers of dead on both sides climbed…

-and the Rohirrim burst from the trees barely a hundred metres from the column of Uruks. Hurried volleys from the troops with loaded guns brought a few down, and then the horse-lords cut the column into small sections and overran them, spearing the snarling Wargs and killing any soldiers who tried to load.

Without the stand-off power of their rifles and with little ready ammunition, the troopers were just inferior spearmen, and in little more than a minute the survivors were fleeing desperately…

* * *

><p>"Lord."<p>

Eomer slowed Firefoot to a walk, allowing the tired horse of the scout to keep up. The rest of the unit slowed likewise, rear contingent first. To do otherwise, as all éored leaders knew, was to invite a gigantic pile-up.

They were around five miles south of the Isen river, in the last stretch of broken terrain before the nascent floodplain. He'd planned to halt here anyway, but the arrival of the scout at this point was serendipitous.

"What is it?"

"Marshal, the closest fords are held by an unknown force. I did not approach close enough to count them, but I saw light glinting off many steel points or blades."

Eomer swore softly. The Isen was fordable in places along here, but they were hardly the easy crossing that could be gained near Isengard. Here the fords could be defended by only a few hundred spearmen and the same number of archers – the spearmen to prevent mounted Rohirrim from gaining the bank, and the archers to sweep the river and knock horsemen off their mounts.

"It must be the Uruks that Saruman has bred in his fortress. They were disciplined when they came to Edoras – did you see any Wargs?"

"Wargs?" The scour frowned. "Not in the open. They're large enough I should have, if they weren't concealed."

Well, even if they had been there they would have been used in a countercharge if he gained the bank, which was for the future. The problem was how to do so in the first place. He would have numbers at the point of attack, he had to, it would take twenty thousand to cover all the fords with forces equalling his own, and if there were that many Uruks they wouldn't need subtlety.

But three or four thousand was entirely possible, and if that were the case the Isengard forces could shift reinforcements to the point of decision quickly.

The tactical situation was similar to a Rohan speciality, in fact, trading off the flexibility of their éored to hammer weak points in a line, swirl away and pick on the weakest to try again. He knew well that the counter was to strengthen the points where the horsemen would press the attack – and on the occasions when Rohan had fought an enemy disciplined enough to adjust their formation on the fly, they had lost many.

He dismounted, letting his horse rest, and as the rest of the Rohirrim began to follow suit he waved over his quartermaster. "Garwine, ask around. How many men have a hunting bow?"

"You mean how many brought theirs with them?" Garwine checked. "I'll get on it." He began instructing his own sworn men to help him, two to an éored.

Eomer decided he could leave that matter in Garwine's capable hands. The man was the leader of the second company of horse from the Third Marshal's personal demesne, and was well used to acting as part of his staff.

Of the men of this scratch force, around half were used to working together – mainly those from near his own seat in the Eastfold. The rest had ridden to his banner in individual éored from all over Rohan. He'd been sounding out their commanders as he rode, but he couldn't be certain of their mettle.

With the tip of his spear, he began drawing in the soil. Various of the company commanders came around to watch as he crudely marked in the position of the known fords, occasionally conferring with the odd local.

Garwine returned as he was finishing. "They're fairly spread, but there are about five hundred bowmen between ten companies. The other fifteen mostly only have their spears and swords – though we got lucky. Two of the éored from the Hornburg are horse archers."

"Two companies of mounted archers?" Eomer checked. "This changes my plans. I was prepared to have the hunters dismount and deliver fire on foot, but that would leave seven hundred men as part of much diminished companies."

He began drawing again. "My plan for the assault on the picked ford itself is to make use of the archers to sweep a clear space, and have some éored make the crossing to gain the bank." He gave a questioning look to one of the Hornburg captains. "Is my thought right, that loosing arrows in a gallop will make them fly further and strike harder?"

"It is, marshal. We could reach across the river for two or three volleys before reaching it, and unless it is particularly wide we could sustain the bombardment."

"Then your éored will precede the others in our first attack, forming flanks to each side of the ford itself." Trying to halt two hundred and forty mounted soldiers with a charge of over a thousand more coming up behind them would have been a recipe for disaster without some kind of lateral separation. "Aim for any archers as you close, then switch to their spear when you reach the river. Try to cross your fire, to meet at the same point – a shield can only be braced in one direction. That should give the rest of us the time we need to cross."

"But how will we stop them from seeing us?" another captain, Tonghere, asked. "If they know where we will strike, then they could move on horse – on warg – to strengthen that point. Even if they knew we were coming by sorcerous means, they would have to be mounted to get here that fast."

"I have a plan. How many of your forces have more than one guidon pennant?"

Several captains indicated that they did. It wasn't official policy, but the banners were often subject to damage, and they served a vital purpose in preventing an army of mixed éored from degenerating into a confused mob. Many commanders had additional copies of the flags, to be tied to a spear in an emergency.

"I'll need them." He checked numbers mentally. Eleven éored he knew and could predict. Four more he knew the commanders of fairly well. Two companies of horse archers.

That left eight he didn't want to test in combat just yet. They could cross after the main body were on the northern side of the Isen and could keep a ford clear.

* * *

><p>Lugdush looked out across the Isen from the third of seven redoubts. He was in this position for better command and control – it was the one closest to the centre of his dispersed force, since the first two were much further apart than the remainder. To the east of his position the only fords were where the river became channelled so that the majority of the water passed through a number of leapable deep sections; to the west, the river was much flatter and spread to a full hundred metres in places. It was barely flank deep across the whole width there.<p>

He'd just received a scout report about eight éored moving slowly eastwards parallel to the river, potentially making for a ford further upstream.

"Hm. Eomer may be a hot headed youth, but he's no idiot."

"Sir?"

"There are eight guidons there, alright, but there's barely enough horse for two éored. He's messing with the size of his companies, to stop us from getting a precise count easily. Good thing he doesn't know about the telescopes."

"What do you think he's planning, then?"

"I'll have to wait for other scout reports." Lugdush frowned, then checked his map on a folding table. This one was of the campaign area only, in much more detail than the map of all Middle-Earth.

"Hm. If he does this trick several times he could manage to make quite a large force drop off our accounting. Then, cross with the greater part of his host. Let's see… depending how he does it, over two thousand horse could come in as a single blow, and he can use the éored which _are_ in sight as scouts to tell whether there's a weaker position. I can't tell Mauhúr where to send his dragoons until Eomer commits."

A grin slowly spread across his face. "Bet he doesn't know about the crows, though. We'll know where he's committed his actual force almost as soon as they reach gun range, and then I can have the greater part of the dragoons hit them from behind."

* * *

><p>Captain Radnag frowned as he saw something move in the trees.<p>

"Sergeant, is that-"

Then the movement coalesced into hundred of horsemen, with more streaming abruptly from the tree line.

"-damnation! Artillery, ready, and launch the rocket! Trumpeter, sound _prepare to receive cavalry!_ Brising," this to one of the crows accompanying 1/2nd company, "message to the Colonel. Rohirrim attacking my position, estimate one thousand-plus."

He gave a quick glance to his artillery as the signal rocket hissed skywards, bursting with an audible _pop_. He had a single Anduin on his left flank, but the next strong point over was close enough to lend supporting fire – though not with rifles. He had a Lune with him as well, that was going on the right of his line along with the operators.

The Rohirrim were moving at a fast walk, perhaps three metres per second. It was hard to judge when his vantage point was barely four metres above the lay of the land.

The artillery rangefinder was having no trouble, though. "Four thousand, five hundred metres."

"Load case shot." He said absently. "Have canister ready to hand."

With a tool hanging from his neck, the loader twisted the base of the first shell and exposed a length of beechwood-encased gunpowder trail within, carefully calibrated. Judging distances and times was an art – thankfully, here, the flood plain was more or less level and the mechanics were simplified.

A crewman twisted the elevating screw, raising the muzzle of the gun. Another three took up a second shell, passing it one to another to a third – the excess manpower was required to allow for casualties. A final uruk, the second in command of the gun, aligned it carefully and stood back for the shot to be loaded.

"Forty-one hundred!" Maximum range, by conventional doctrine, was four thousand metres. Most of the crew ducked away, hands over their ears and mouths open – overly cautious, perhaps, but many of them had test-fired on the heavy fortress guns which were far more punishing to those nearby. And the habit was good to get into, since ears _would_ be damaged over time.

"Fire!"

The shell shot forwards in a dense cloud of powder smoke, and the movements better choreographed than a dance began.

Two of the crew handled the artillery piece forwards again, moving it back to the original firing position. As soon as it was, another opened the breech, loading in the new – and already fuzed – round. The gun commander observed the fall of shot to check his elevation, ready to reduce it or adjust the timing depending on how fast the enemy were coming on.

"Damn." Radnag said absently as the Rohirrim formation opened up near the centre, along the flight path of the shell. "Those are good troops."

Case shot was outside their experience – it had to be, this was as far as he knew the first such round ever fired in anger – but ballistae and other artillery were not, and it was curst hard to actually _hit_ an enemy in open country with small numbers of artillery shots unless they were packed in too close to move out of the way.

No, the primary effect of artillery used on a relatively small force like this one was to make it spread out.

The _thrack_ of the bursting charge, the spread of the dense cloud of lead balls and the collapse of a dozen or so men and horses was a reminder, though. The Rohirrim didn't expect a weapon that lethal, or with that much spread.

The charge spread the shot, but it was the velocity of the shell itself that made the balls lethal.

Twenty seconds later, the second shell went in. The crew could fire faster than that, but the build up of heat and the extreme pressures combined to gradually strip the lands of the rifling from the guns. Better to conserve them.

* * *

><p>Eomer cursed bitterly. He hadn't expected field artillery – <em>nobody<em> used field artillery! How had they _got_ it here? – and that it was some new and unexpected type was clearly unsettling the Rohirrim and their horses both.

Still, it didn't come over very often, and there was just the one. And the trajectory was like that of a ballista, which was easy enough to dodge now they knew what to expect. And, finally, it wasn't always aimed or timed right – one had plunged into the mud ahead of his men, for no effect, and two or three more had burst behind the horsemen.

It was just somehow… unnatural.

He checked his spear, still supported by his foot. In a few minutes, he'd be taking it in hand to attack the spearmen holding the far bank.

They were already moving faster than he really wanted. This pace had the potential to tire the horses. But the entire unit wanted to close in, to get in under the range of that terrible weapon and do some damage in return.

* * *

><p>Gramhane watched as a number of wargs suddenly splashed across the river at the nearest crossing. It was between one and two miles away at this point, so he couldn't see them very well, but the movement was unmistakeable.<p>

"Eldred! Form your éored up on the right flank! I'll take the left – and single rank!"

There were only about a hundred of the enemy, he estimated with the skill of a veteran. And those men who had been in Edoras at the time of Saruman's arrival had mentioned that their spears were only around six feet long – and not well suited to cavalry work, at that. Either they were dragoons and their schiltrom would be easily bypassed, or they were poor cavalry.

He outnumbered them two or three to one. He'd be able to meet their charge in the centre and sweep his flanks around in a double-envelopment. And that would be the end of a hundred orc raiders.

As the Rohirrim countermarched into their positions and took their spears out of the buckets that usually held them, he kept a weather eye on the approaching wargs.

Something about them unsettled him. It was somehow familiar, but not quite right…

_They're coming on in column,_ he realized. _Good discipline. Too good._

That was worrying. It implied that maybe the orcs wouldn't be simply ridden into the ground.

A movement caught his eye. The column of twos split into four as they advanced, the front halves drifting out to the flanks and the rear halves separating to produce four ruler-straight lines.

Gramhane began to feel a sinking feeling in his gut as he watched, which only increased as the four columns opened out in turn. Each spread like an opening fan, and within a minute he was facing a single long line.

_That's better than most any éored_ _could do,_ he thought. By now the éored were aligned properly, and he ordered them forward. "At a walk!"

The two lines of cavalry approached one another. At about a half-mile of distance, the orcs slowed to a stop and stood in their stirrups.

He could barely make out individuals moving, now. They were doing something-

White smoke puffed out from the line of stationary warg riders.

Seconds later, with a sound like demonic hail, spears shattered and men and horses fell like they had been speared.

Gramhane heard a horn blow the charge.

"No, you young fool!" he shouted, as the line began to surge forward. At this kind of distance, all a gallop would do was tire the horses and leave them vulnerable. "Hold, men of-"

A hammer slammed into his chest, and he toppled soundlessly from the saddle.

* * *

><p>They were closer now, Radnag thought idly. It didn't take long to cover four kilometres at a canter. Perhaps eight minutes.<p>

The next shot from the field gun was accompanied by a shell from the next strongpoint, a few kilometres down the river. They were too far to offer any more help, but what they did was much appreciated – the shell took the line of horse in a partial enfilade, and together with his battery that resulted in thirty or forty casualties.

About fifteen hundred metres to go.

With a _brrrap_, the Lune fired. It punched a hole into the Rohirrim formation, five or six going down.

"Traverse, you lazy sods!" Radnag shouted. "Sweep the gun across them!"

The loaders for the Lune were already replacing the plate. Another _brrrap,_ and this time the spray of bullets caught at least twenty horsemen.

Eleven hundred metres.

"Company-"

"Platoon-"

The lieutenants began pointing out aim points with their sabres.

"By half-platoons, volley fire, _fire_!"

The acrid clouds of gunsmoke hid their target for a moment. As the infantry reloaded-

"Aule." Radnag whispered.

As many horse had gone down as from one of the artillery rounds. But whereas the artillery and the Lune punched holes through the formation, this took a tithe from much of the front rank. More of the riders piled into the dead and dying, shock preventing them from turning aside or leaping the barricade.

One by one, the six half-platoons began firing again. They were loading slowly for now, so the volleys were spaced by one-and-a-half seconds, each cutting down a small number of the Rohirrim.

"Come on, come on you mad bastards, break…" Radnag said quietly. "Don't kill yourselves like this…" The horse-lords had taken nearly forty percent casualties by now, much worse in the éored in the front lines. _They must be nearly berserk to be coming on through that kind of loss rate._

The tempo of the rifles paused for a second, as lieutenants ordered a switch of the sights to six hundred metres. Radnag also noticed that the gun commander was getting out canister. As he watched, the last regular round in the pile was fired – cutting another swathe – and the canister round loaded.

Movement caught his eye, and he brought up his telescope. Wargs – dragoons, racing along the southern bank. Cutting off the line of retreat for the Rohirrim.

He couldn't say he was sorry about what was about to happen. These misguided idiots had planned on doing worse to the Dunlendings. But this kind of slaughter wasn't right – they weren't bad men, just misled.

Brising flapped back to his shoulder as the thunderous crashing of the rifles accelerated. "The other battalions of Rohirrim were intercepted by the dragoons. These are all that's left as a coherent force."

"My thanks for the message." He said absently. He noticed a trooper digging at an extraction jam out of the corner of his eye. Tradeoffs; faster firing caused more jams.

The canister slashed out. At two hundred yards, the shot cone was at maximum effectiveness, and nearly a hundred horse-lords died in a welter of blood.

They were firing back now, arrows launched at the gallop. A trooper next to him went down with an arrow in his throat – bad luck, that, nobody was that good from the back of a charging horse. Others took arrows to the thigh, to centre mass, to the arm… but the horse archers were melting away under the fire of the bone-smasher bullets, that could go through armour and a man and armour again and another man at this range.

A knot of cavalry, by the looks of them and their good unit coordination mostly from a single éored, plunged recklessly into the river at a dead gallop. The Lune punched fifteen of them down, the slamming close-range volleys from the rifles got more, and a last blaze of canister wiped away most of the remainder.

As the last of them turned back, they saw the ruin of their force and the six hundred Uruk dragoons, and retreat became rout.

Radnag sighed in relief, then noticed an arrow in his upper arm. He hadn't felt it when it arrived, though the broken chainmail testified that it had had a lot of force behind it.

He probed at it for a moment – there was pain, but only shallowly in the muscle. He'd have to avoid using that arm until he received the attentions of a medic, but it wasn't at risk of cutting tendons.

Certainly he'd come off better than many of his company. By the looks of things, at least five were dead, and maybe thirty would need some kind of help from doctors – whether it was just removing barbed arrows or, for one, most likely amputation. A spear wound, that – the thrown spear had gone through the chain mail at the elbow with the speed granted by the gallop.

Lugdush rode up a minute or so later on his warg, Morna. "Good work, Captain. I'm coordinating with the logistics and medical contingents to get some help for your company over here, and… wait a minute…"

He dismounted and hurried over to the river, plunging in and pulling one of the humans off a sandbank that was only just underwater. The captain watched, and saw that the human was wearing unusually impressive armour – there was a lead-splashed dent, probably a hollow-point round that had hit at extreme range and failed to penetrate. "Give me some help with him. I think this might be Eomer."

"Will he be alright?" Radnag asked dubiously. Looking the noble Eorlingas over, he had lost his left arm at the elbow and passed out in the water from shock. Of his famous horse, Firefoot, there was no sign. Probably part of the horseflesh tinting the water pink.

"Humans take a few minutes to drown. Get his lungs clear and put a tourniquet around his arm! Come on!"

* * *

><p>Tonghere and the shattered remnants of the Rohirrim, barely three hundred strong, straggled into the fort of the Mithburg with the heavy gait of horses on the edge of their endurance.<p>

The sun was setting – they had been fleeing for hours, and the warg riders had been _toying_ with them. Always pacing them, with their infernal beasts loping along with hardly any sign of exertion – it had been clear they could catch up at any point, but they hadn't.

As he slid off his heaving horse and began shouting orders to close the gates, he took his panic in hand.

They were behind stout walls of good wood, nearly fifteen feet high and with a fighting platform. This kind of fort was built to make escalade assaults impossible – and the local garrison of villagers, even now turning out from the village within the walls, would have food for many weeks left. They could hold out until the rest of the muster could ride to their rescue.

_And be slaughtered in their turn_, a treacherous thought whispered. He ignored it.

* * *

><p>"As you said, sir. We didn't push the wargs, so we couldn't catch most of them before the gate – and now it's shut, and I doubt we can force it easily."<p>

"Quite right of you." Mauhúr said firmly. Most of the dragoons were now concentrated, and they were investing the small fort.

He checked the time with a glance to the sky. "How long until the artillery arrives?"

"At last check, they were ten minutes away."

"Thank you. I think we could end this tonight – after all, my orders only say that most of them should not escape, and the cover of night will give some of them a chance to run for it."

"What of the village?"

"True, true. We should follow protocol. Flag party with me. Colour sergeant, break out the truce banner."

* * *

><p>Tonghere watched with apprehension as the orc camp set up. They had only arrived ten minutes or so ago, but they were already establishing a trench-and-berm, with a party of soldiers of about company strength cutting sharpened logs for a palisade and another placing them within the berm.<p>

The organization it displayed frightened him. That section that was already constructed looked like it was close in quality to the very fort he was in – and they were building it at alarming speed.

"Sir, look."

The captain glanced over – the speaker was a fairly old warrior, but he looked as staggered by the industry of the orcs as he himself was.

Then he turned back to what the man was pointing to.

A party of mounted orcs a dozen or so strong was moving towards the gate at a slow walk, with a white flag flying on their banner.

They stopped outside easy bow-shot, and one of them called up for a truce.

"I can't say I want to, but it's best if I do." Tonghere muttered. "Ethelred! Get my senior sergeants, and a guidon with a white cloth if there's any here!"

* * *

><p>"Not very impressive, are they?" The colour sergeant muttered.<p>

"Now, now, be nice." Mauhúr replied. "It can't be easy for them, after all."

"Men of Rohan," he said formally as the somewhat ramshackle Rohirrim party arrived. "By the laws of war concerning fortified places, I must summon you now that I have begun investing your fort. I offer you terms, surrender with parole and an oath never to take up arms against the Army of Isengard."

The Rohan captain looked mortally insulted, but somehow held his tongue. One of his sergeants was not so restrained.

"Orc filth! Why should we give oath to you, you-"

"Raiders?" Mauhúr said acidly. "Killers of women and children, attackers unprovoked, men who would rather drive a nation to starvation than coexist with them? Because all that merely sounds to me like a description of your intent this day."

Two of the other Rohirrim made ready to take the sergeants' arms if he lost control of himself completely, but he did not make it necessary. "Pretty words, orc. But we men of Rohan have long memories, and your kind have pillaged and burned the land of Rohan many times."

"The Dunlendings have longer memories. They remember when this was their land, until fair-haired invaders from the north were given it in return for fealty to a steward who did not in truth have it to give." Mauhúr shrugged. "But we can bandy words all day. Do you accept these terms, or will we have to summon you once more when the walls are breached? I should warn you that terms become more strict with each refusal."

"We can hold our fort against the likes of you, orc." The Rohan captain said, and turned away without another word.

"Pity." Mauhúr observed clinically. "Runner to the artillery unit, have a flare rocket ready at all times and load explosive shells."

* * *

><p>In the world of Central's visions, fortifications had undergone several revisions with the march of technology. At first, the wide use of the trebuchet had led to high and thick curtain walls. Even the first cannon, such as bombards, had simply been countered with ever higher and ever thicker walls – until it was eventually realized that the racking stresses of a cannonball hit or the like would tear a rigid wall apart.<p>

A man called Vauban had been the most iconic architect of the new style of fortifications, which focused on preventing a cannonball from hitting the wall at all. Those walls were sheltered behind huge berms, and their height was primarily to prevent an escalade assault. Their substance was less solid than the old stone walls, making the damage from a hit less able to propagate through the entire structure.

Siege warfare became a kind of dance of ravelin, assault trench, enfilade, circumvallation and countervallation, where both sides knew to within days how long a siege would take from the beginning.

Even these fortifications were rendered obsolete eventually, primarily by the mortar and the howitzer – weapons that fired on high trajectories and could bypass the wall entirely, or lob shells clear across the fort to strike the inner surface.

Central had not been able to render fortresses of the Vauban type obsolete with the weapons Saruman was capable of reproducing in quantity. But this hardly mattered. Only the great walls of the Black Gate, the Twin Cities of Minas Tirith and Minas Morgul, or of Isengard itself were any true problem for the artillery he _could_ provide.

This wooden fort was almost laughable.

"Come right another two degrees!" the battery commander shouted to one of his crews. "We have all the time we want to get this _right_, don't we?"

The fourth gun in the battery turned slightly so that it was focused on the same section of wall as the rest, and at the same elevation.

"Right. One round, explosive, contact fuzed. Elevation… up one quarter turn."

All four guns moved up in unison, even though only the number two gun had been loaded. As per normal procedure, one gun would be used to determine the fall of shot, and then all the guns would fire for effect once the optimum elevation was determined.

"Number two gun, _fire!_"

Everyone ducked aside as the Anduin fired, and less than a second later a yellow-cored blast blew a hole in the earth two feet short of the wall.

"Up one half turn." He said, and watched as torches appeared on the walls. _They weren't expecting that…_

Twenty seconds for the reload. Fairly normal. "Fire!"

This time the round blew a hole halfway through the first layer of logs, striking about halfway up the wall.

"Battery shoot, standard fire, explosive, five rounds, fire for effect!"

Shattering explosions tore the night.

* * *

><p>Next morning, the shell-shocked captain of Rohan and two hundred survivors surrendered themselves into Mauhúr's custody, to be returned to Isengard as prisoners and used for labour – probably work on the railways and roads.<p>

They'd been indignant about the second set of terms, but Mauhúr had reminded them of their refusal of the first – and then warned them that the consequences of a second refusal would be a sack of the fort.

That had provoked a shudder. A "sack" was when the storming army, having paid the price to get over the wall, was essentially allowed to run rampant in the town. Many of the men of Rohan had been puzzled that the uruks had not sacked the fort as a matter of course, as well – which Mauhúr considered a small victory.

Isengard's word was steel. And steel is a metal by which people live, as well as die.

* * *

><p>AN: Okay, that's another chapter done. Hopefully the Rohirrim came across as less of a pushover than they might have been otherwise.<p>

The system of terms that were used here is vaguely reminiscent of that from the Napoleonic era mixed with that from Genghis Khan's armies. Though the Napoleonic armies wouldn't have taken in labourers as prisoners, instead giving parole when a breach was made – and Genghis would have simply changed the number of executions he would make.

As for the reference to railways - while he can't make many, Saruman can manage the odd steam engine. And railways allow movement of troops with great speed - and, more importantly, without tiring them out in the process. They're still under construction, of course.


	5. Chapter 5

_"We're marching to fight evil men from far and distant lands!_

_Twelve hundred fighting Uruk-Hai, the colonel and the band!_"

Marek and his colour party stood atop a hill in the badlands of Rhovanion, watching the army go past in cadenced step. The core of the force was the 2nd infantry, the Blood and Steel, but there was more than just the 'twelve hundred fighting Uruk-hai'.

There were a few dozen scout troopers with the odd werewolf scattered amongst them breaking trail, and keeping an eye out for any hostile presence in the vicinity. For this part of the march the scout screen was especially strong to the right rear, since that was the direction of the Black Gate.

The artillery batteries were in the centre of the marching column, their hitch-Wargs pulling the caissons along at a steady walk and keeping in company with the infantry. It was the latter who were really setting the pace of the march, after all.

Logistics and Medical personnel, each in platoon strength, followed with a pair of Yurgs at the rear of the force. The creatures were so large and so thickly armoured that Marek had decided to treat them as mobile fortresses instead of regular draft beasts – thus, the logistics personnel had rifles to hand in case of attack, and the beasts were festooned with spare ammunition and provisions.

Marek snorted. It wasn't as if they could go anywhere else, the ground was muddy enough from the feet of the infantry but the yurgs completely destroyed it for foot troops. The only times they'd been anywhere else in the marching order it had bogged the infantry down substantially.

It had been worth it, though. The enormous creatures had managed to block enough of the flow of the Anduin river to let the infantry ford it without being pushed over, and they'd also carried the artillery across in a separate trip.

There was a distant _crack_ of rifle fire. Two shots, then a single one, then nothing. He nodded to a member of the party. "Go and investigate. Hopefully it wasn't anything important."

That taken care of for now, he cast his gaze appraisingly along the column itself. Most of it seemed in order, though fourth company were getting a bit ragged. He sent another aide to go and sort them out – cadenced marching was easy, if you already knew how to do it. And the measured pace kept soldiers going for hours without tiring them.

Some minutes later, a werewolf ran up to him. "Orc-man, one of the scouting parties encountered some orc trackers from Mordor. None escaped."

"Thank you, Swift-jaw," he replied, remembering this were's name. "My compliments to you and to the scouts."

He urged his Warg into movement with the colour party, riding parallel to the line of march. "Best we keep moving until five this afternoon, I think. The extra distance should give us a little leeway tomorrow, or whenever they finally get around to sending out more scouts."

"I'll go and let the forward scouts know they're to mark the camp another four miles on." Another member of the colour party paused for a moment to wait for any counter-order, tapped his Warg's neck, and it broke with the formation to head ahead.

Marek nodded approvingly. That was initiative – good. The point of a structured table of organization was to make sure any one officer didn't have too much of a workload.

"Bring that map over here, Tureg." he called, gesturing to one of the Men of Dale stock in his command group. "Let's see if we can work out what the Rhûn commander's line of march is going to be."

* * *

><p>"Most of the forts are along the rivers, really…" Tureg said, pointing out the River Running and its' tributaries. "The border of Rhûn is along the north-south line at the western edge of the Sea of Rhûn."<p>

Marek ran his finger along the line of the rivers. "Szrel-Kain is the closest Rhûn town to the Dale – it's got to be a major through route for the main invasion force. And you have to keep a large army close to water, yes… our lot can break away from supply for a short time, but that's because of hardtack, streams and forage. Much more than five thousand and water becomes a serious issue. Hmmm…" The finger moved south. "This outpost here, Nurunkhizdin?"

"It's in Rhûn hands. But there's not much of a pass there through the mountains."

"It could be a resupply point, with preparation. For water, at least… yes, that's how _I'd_ do it. One column coming up the Running itself, the big one with the siege force, to crack open fortified towns or just encircle them to bypass." Marek tapped the lower reaches of the River Running, then shifted his finger south. "One from this small river on the western edge of the Sea of Rhûn, to threaten the Dorwinion basin and Uldonavan. And a third one, maybe five or six thousand – mainly or wholly horse – to circle the mountains from Burh Ermanarikis to Nurunkhizdin and rewater, then use the foothills as a screen from Dorwinion – they have to have some potable water in them, there's a ruddy great river not thirty miles north – and strike any relief column coming from Ilanin or further north."

Tureg examined the map critically. "Fairly dry, that area, but you're right – there are some streams, and it's getting on for the wet part of early spring there. They'll have their water. And a force that size, all horse… it'll rip any quick relief force to shreds in the open field, and if the king waits long enough to build up a large force then Ilanin is going to be under siege from the first force."

"Well, we have our predictions. Now, let's see if they pan out. Have the crows sweep the lines of march we've predicted, and a general examination of the area. Oh, and one flight far north as well – I don't know if there'll be a flanking force to the north using Logathavuld, but best to be safe."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

><p>A few hours later, the dozen or so scout troopers who had been sent ahead to prepare the night's stop came into view, atop a large flat hilltop. A river wound along the base of the hill, defining the southern side, and a convenient copse stood near enough for material but not near enough for ambush.<p>

The colonel approved. A good site, and they'd reached it within minutes of the planned stop time.

He drifted to the side as the Uruks marched up the slope into the marked area, then judged the moment that the centre of the column was best placed.

"Trumpeter… sound _halt._"

The notes blared out across the evening sky, and the infantry halted in place with a crash of footsteps.

"Sound _fall out to quarters._"

Another snarl of trumpets, and the march column dissolved into companies, then squads, each knot of soldiers finding their place and starting their assigned duties. First they pitched tents, each set in a pre-arranged place around a common squad campfire area. Their weapons left in regulation stacks, they stood to the camp perimeter and began throwing up a palisade wall.

Logistics troopers drew up in the mess area and began establishing fires to cook up soup for a hot meal; medics began digging the latrines. The command group had their tents already set up for them, but still needed to take care of their Wargs before business.

Within twenty minutes of unhurried but well-choreographed activity, the camp was solid enough to defend against mounted attack – the palisade's earthen base was set up, robbing any charge of much of its' power.

_Good work,_ Marek observed silently, as he surveyed the camp. A place for everything, and everything in its' place.

They were operating in territory that was likely to turn hostile, though, so he would need to have them tear the fort back down again in the morning. No point being courteous to the enemy by providing them with ready strong points.

* * *

><p>"Come on, come on, let's hear one!" Marek said, gesturing at his bannerman. "Be good to have a bit of music for our discussions!"<p>

"Right." The lanky human strummed his small guitar. "How's this?"

_"The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;_ _'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;_ _'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about,_ _An' then comes up the Regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out!"_

By the end of the second line, almost everyone in earshot was singing along – it was a favourite.

"So," Marek asked quietly. "Was my guess right?"

"Yes, sir." A crow replied in his harsh tones. "Six thousand horse, which are three thousand riders and as many remounts, just rounding the base of the mountains."

"Damnation." The colonel said. "I'd not thought they might try that – that'll reduce their striking power but increase their speed substantially." He tapped his chin. "Hmm, our troops have better strategic speed, because of the need to find food for that many horses. I doubt they can manage more than five or six hours a day, while we can accomplish nine."

The idea of cavalry galloping long distances was always a ridiculous one. Careful horsemanship and good planning would allow one to keep up a fast trot without killing too many horses – but fighting a battle at the other end, or anywhere along the route, was nearly impossible. Infantry weren't nearly as fast tactically, and couldn't manage more than four to five miles per hour over long distances – but that rate, for good troops, was sure as the sunrise.

_"The young recruit is silly - 'e thinks o' suicide._ _'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride;_ _But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit,_ _Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit!"_

"How far until we reach Othlebed?"

"It's about ninety miles away." The crow answered. Marek nodded, checking against the map.

"So, about two days of hard march. Good, we can reprovision there and make for Nurunkhizdin. My hope is that we'll reach it while the Rhûn cavalry force is resting."

"It'll be tight." One of the other Uruks said, looking at the map.

"I have confidence in them. Their morale is excellent." Marek gestured to the tent's opening, though which voices roared out in chorus.

_"An' now 'e's 'arf o' nothin', an' all a private yet,_ _'Is room they up an' rags 'im to see what they will get._ _They rags 'im low an' cunnin', each dirty trick they can,_ _But 'e learns to sweat 'is temper an 'e learns to sweat 'is man."_

"They'll do fine. Now, I think we need to send a crow to the king of the Dale to let him know our dispositions – and what we have divined of the enemy's intentions."

"Best wait until confirmation of the other two forces comes in."

"True." Marek checked the map. "The Dorwinion basin has a sizeable garrison, but if it gets frittered away in penny packets it'll be unable to withstand the assault force we expect… hm. They'll have to pull back to the city itself. No matter what we do, the border regions are going to be devastated."

_"An' when it comes to marchin' he'll see their socks are right,_ _An' when it comes to action 'e shows 'em how to sight._ _'E knows their ways of thinkin' and just what's in their mind;_ _'E knows when they are takin' on an' when they've fell be'ind."_

"Now, integrating that force with our own. They're mainly melee troops, but the bowmen could be placed behind our rifles to thicken the firepower – or, alternately, both units to act as a hard centre while we provide the flanks. The main weakness of a sword-and-bow army like theirs is either the flanks or – if spread to cover them – the thin centre, and being able to provide raking fire would help." Marek brought a pen and paper from his supplies. "It depends on the terrain, of course… and as for offensive operations, perhaps breaking the regiment into three columns of battalion size. Four hundred rifles and their guns should be enough to take any small fortified area."

"Offensive? Isn't that premature? They'll still have more forces in the area than we will – and you know that standing on the defensive triples the value of a force."

"True." Marek nodded. It was a simple formula – to push an offensive, it took three times the simple combat value of the defender. When neither army could obtain local superiority, stalemate resulted. "If the Rhûn forces occupy any of the local towns, we'll want to snap up their small detachments while they're available. If they don't, then they're limiting their defensive capability and are vulnerable to being encircled themselves. Perhaps overnight – our riflemen see much better than humans on a moonlit night. Something to consider."

"_The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone -_

_'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own._

_The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began_

_But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned Man!"_

* * *

><p>"Hold." the Rhûn chieftain called, and his brigade slowed to a walk. "We'll make camp here. This is the last good grazing before Nurunkhizdin."<p>

"As if we didn't know that." Ikrimah said, loud enough for the elder noble to hear.

Nizar turned to glare at his sworn man, and after a moment Ikrimah held up a hand for mercy.

The chieftain held the stare for another few seconds, then suddenly grinned. "Learned your lesson?"

"About not provoking you?" Ikrimah said, chuckling. "Never!"

"You old pirate. Anyway, come on. You have the map? We'll need to plot the line of march after we rewater."

"What are you assuming?" Ikrimah swung off his horse, caressed the neck of his remount for a moment, and was all business.

"There's no good food until the little stream that runs out of Nurunkhizdin, so I feel the best plan would be to forced-march there. We can spend an extra day resting the horses afterwards, and the men will be less grumpy."

Ikrimah laughed. "Don't let an elite Azadan hear you calling him grumpy."

"Who said I referred to them?" Nizar said. "I only mean their retainers."

After a moment, the Dehgan nodded. "You'll probably get away with that."

Nizar returned to the map. "The basin is another few days' travel past that, but with well-supplied horses and a pack on the remounts we'll make it easily before resupply. And then…"

Then, battle, and honour. Glory.

* * *

><p>A black shape winged into the air as evening fell, circled the encamped horsemen once, and flew northwest.<p>

* * *

><p>Two hours before dawn, outside the fort of Nurunkhizdin, small knots of soldiers walked into position. Walked, not marched – the sound of marching was like nothing else on Arda, and carried easily.<p>

Several quiet curses came from just the platoon Marek had attached himself to. After having trained until marching was instinctive, walking _out_ of step led to the occasional stumble.

The men already had their orders. Staggered line and a number of sharpened stakes. Anything more complicated would run a severe risk of being detected early.

As the sky began to lighten with the beginnings of twilight, Marek nodded to the colour sergeant. That NCO struck a chemical match, and touched the flaming tip to a length of slow match. That in turn lit the fuse on a signal mortar.

With a dull _thump_, the first starshell went skywards. This one had no parachute and would hit the ground in seconds – but it would serve excellently as a signal.

Brilliant white light momentarily illuminated the draw and the level ground below, where the fort was constructed and the Isen force stood ready. And, incidentally, blinded any sentries who might have been looking out to see what had made the sound.

* * *

><p>"Ranging fire!"<p>

"Gun three, contact HE, single fire, _fire._"

A tongue of flame spat out at the suddenly-plain stone fort. Two seconds later, halfway up the walls, a blossom of fire and smoke erupted into the night.

"Good shot, lads!" The commander enthused. A first-shot hit was unusual, but gratifying. "Battery shoot, five rounds HE, slow fire, _fire._"

If the walls were poorly constructed, for stone, this would start the work of picking them apart. In the perhaps more likely event that they were good thick stone, the shattering explosions would start causing panic. Rouse the Dehgans and get them milling about in the courtyard.

And then it would be the turn of the Branduins.

* * *

><p>"What is going on?" Nizar asked forcefully. "Who is attacking us?" He caught the arm of the next person to run past and shook them to try and break their hysteria.<p>

"The westerners have summoned devils!" An armsman cried, struggling blindly against the constraining hand. "Fire erupts from the plain and shakes the walls!"

"Fool!" Nizar replied, contempt dripping from his voice. "Panic does us no good."

"Your orders?" Ikrimah asked, hurrying up. Nizar dropped the armsman on the floor, and looked his aide over.

Pupils were a little too dilated for the level of light, which could be battle-shock, but he was clearly pushing through it. Good enough.

"Get the gates open, and form up in the courtyard. We'll ride out to face them, and get more room to manoeuvre."

"My lord." Ikrimah nodded, noticeably calmer, and gestured to his own party of men. "You heard the Suhrdhan! Khusrau, get to the gatehouse. The rest of you, come with me to rally the troops."

Everyone but Nizar flinched as another smashing explosion went off, but after a moment they all hurried to their tasks.

* * *

><p>"I make that ten minutes." Marek said quietly. "Now, do you think?"<p>

"I agree, sir." The platoon lieutenant said. "By now even those asleep will be in the courtyard."

"Right. Blue rocket, signalman."

His signalman bent, and touched a slow match to the paper of a small rocket. It shot into the air in a fizzing rush of sparks, then detonated in a bluish _pop_ as the flames reached a charge mixed with a small amount of lead powder.

Seconds later, the steady _shuump… shuump… shuump_ of the Branduins replied from his artillery battery positions.

* * *

><p>"Come on, come on, come on!" Ikrimah shouted. "Form up, damn you! I want good order, ready to separate as soon as we're out of the gate! Yes, bring the spare horses, we might need to make it a breakout! Bows <em>and <em>lances at the ready, and have you forgotten how to _ride_ the bloody horse as well?"

A minor nobleman burst from the milling mass of swordsmen, one hand clutching the hilt of his scimitar. "I will not take orders from a mere Dehgan!"

"My orders come from the commander. You will obey them." Ikrimah replied quietly. A sort of hush fell, rippling out from the tableau, and the only sound was the occasional _crash_ of the terrible weapons and the panicked whinnying of horses reacting to the noise.

"They will get us all killed!" the noble said, muscles twitching as if to draw. "We cannot control our horses in this terrible noise, and to make a charge before dawn is to risk falling."

"If we stay in here, we will be besieged." Ikrimah said icily. "Given the choice between a quick roll of the dice and a slow, certain death… I choose the dice."

The nobleman finally drew his scimitar – and with a sudden harsh buzz, he collapsed with a hand clutching at his throat.

Nizar lowered his composite bow. "My command, my orders. I tolerate no cowardice."

For a moment the army was still, shock from the sudden execution still whipsawing through them… and then, two contact-fused mortar shells landed in the centre of the press of bodies, and the screaming started.

* * *

><p>"Report." Marek said to a crow that landed on his shoulder.<p>

"Heavy casualties." The crow replied. "One of the shells landed right in front of the gate, and the mass of bodies is going to make their sally a mess."

"Thank you." Marek turned to a runner. "Compliments to the mortar commanders, and tell them to finish up with one shot of carcase and then cease fire." Carcase shot was mortar-launched incendiaries, or in this case quicklime, and would come down like snow out of hell.

"Yes, sir." The Uruk rode off.

"Aule." One of the lieutenants whispered. "It's got to be horrible in there."

"Yes." Marek's face could have been carved from oak. "They'll be trying to get out as fast as they can. Sound _prepare to receive cavalry_, and… _hold fire._ I don't want them to decide to stay forted up, we haven't the time for a siege. We'll engage when the enemy's momentum is too great." The Uruk turned, slightly, to look at the lightening sky. "We don't have enough cavalry for a pursuit, so I want to break their spirit. Make them believe that coming back to fight again is sure and certain death. Or, at least, make them think that for the remainder of the campaign."

In the half-dawn light, twelve hundred Uruk-Hai dressed their lines, then half of them went kneeling and placed prepared stakes. The standing soldiers alternated with the kneeling ones, resulting in their bayonets facing the interior of the valley in a jagged double line of offset combs.

"Armour piercing!" the call went down the line, and corporals checked with the soldiers in their squads to be sure that brass-tip rounds were loaded. At long range, armour could turn the softer lead bullets.

The rapidguns didn't have any armour piercing ammunition, nor did they need it. The longer barrels possessed by the squat weapons gave a much higher velocity to the 11mm rounds and meant they would retain their punch for further.

* * *

><p>Private Ugblag knelt, feeling the dew of the grass soak into his trousers. He'd double-checked that his rifle was loaded with a brass-tipped round – every horseman he didn't kill because of the wrong ammunition was one more dehgan lance aimed at <em>him.<em>

To either side of him more Uruk-Hai stood or knelt, their weapons up. Ugblag was one of the front rank and would hence have to brace his rifle if the attack came – the second rank's job was to stab at horses stalled by the sight of the naked steel points.

_Right,_ he thought. _First time in a battle. Hope I don't muck up._

He could see, now, the gates of Nurunkhizdin starting to jerk open. As soon as they were wide enough, horses and men began struggling through.

"That's not a sally!" someone said, suddenly. "They're just trying to-"

"Silence in the ranks." The Corporal said, and Ugblag nodded unconsciously.

Despite what he'd heard, he could see the Dehgans trying to shake down into some kind of formation. With veterans, it was all but instinct – though the crash and thunder of mortar fire would be scaring their horses something terrible.

It dawned on him that he hadn't actually heard any mortar shells for a minute at least, and the guns were easing off as well.

"Hey, what happened to the arty?" he said, just loud enough to be heard by the soldier next to him.

That Uruk chuckled. "Figures they'd leave the _real_ work to the infantry. Otherwise, why'd we march all the way over here?"

"Cynic."

"Realist, thank you."

The horsemen had mostly emerged by now, about six hundred men and half again as many horses. They were starting to form into a coherent block, ready for their attempt at a breakout-

Five notes sounded on the bugle, repeated once, followed by the long note of _execute_. To both sides of Ugblag, a _brrrap_ sounded from the nearest rapidguns as they all fired one magazine at the dense mass of horsemen.

"Aule." Someone muttered. It took Ugblag a moment to realize it was him. The rapidguns were firing at the outer edges of their effective range, and didn't get many hits – but the rounds that did mainly caught horses. And "not many" still meant nearly seventy bullets had broken legs or ripped bellies or smashed into heads.

What order there was in the Rhûn cavalry formation disintegrated. Horses and men both went into blind panic, running in all directions at a flat gallop.

"Engage at six hundred metres! On the word of command!"

Ugblag's rifle came up to his shoulder, and he flicked the sight to 600m. Anyone looking along the barrel would have thought he was aiming almost over the mountainous backdrop – Isen rounds had to be "dropped" onto the target.

Gently, he took up the slack in the trigger. His finger met a momentary resistance as he started to actually move the hammer, and he held it there.

"Company-" the captain called.

He picked a target. Someone riding in the only coherent bit of formation left in the Rhûn cavalry unit – a dozen or so men and a banner, riding towards his platoon.

"Platoon-" lieutenants shouted.

Realizing that _someone_ wouldn't be able to resist the bannerman, he moved the aim point across to the person next to him. Fairly short compared to the others, but a target was a target.

"Volley fire, FIRE!"

A single BAM punched needles of pain into his ears, as twelve hundred rifles fired in chorus. His hands operated without his conscious direction, snapping open the chamber to remove the spent cartridge – snatching a round from the ammunition holder – pushing it in with the newly developed callus on his thumb – bringing the rifle back to his eye –

A series of BAMs, like single shots magnified a dozen times, marched across the valley from south to north towards him as half-platoons fired their volleys. He had just the time to spot a target – someone reaching for the half-fallen Rhûn banner, leaning half out of their saddle. Then it was his section's turn and the loudest BAM punished his ears.

The man went flipping backwards out of his saddle, hit by over a dozen bullets, almost before he fired. It looked like the unfortunate man had caught the attention of a substantial part of the regiment.

Waves of movement rippled from right to left along the line of riflemen. There were ten companies of 120 men each in the regiment, each of which formed three platoons, and the volleys were firing in half-platoons. Each half-platoon was a tenth of a second behind the one to its' right, resulting in a continual surf-roar of heavy 11mm fire slashing in towards the horsemen.

Not that there was really a single coherent target, any more. The constant sound and flashes and the unnatural light of the starshell all combined to drive the horses mad, save those whose riders had had the quick thinking to stop the ears of their mounts.

One of those quick-thinking men seemed to be behind a knot of panicked horse galloping at his position. Ugbrag aimed for him, and cursed as one of the tall warhorses blocked his line of sight, taking the bullet in the throat.

Then he was faced with a maddened horse and a human barely more sane. Bracing his bayoneted rifle on the ground, he aimed it towards the approaching animal.

At the last moment, some vestige of sanity seemed to strike the horse, which tried desperately to avoid driving directly onto a steel blade. It spilled its' rider, who landed with the easy roll of a veteran cavalryman, and then died as the lieutenant put a revolver bullet through its' head.

The sliding body tangled up three of the Uruks to Ugbrag's left, and the rider leapt at him as the immediate threat, snatching a saber from his belt and lunging.

Training took over again. Ugbrag raised his bayoneted rifle to cross with the blade, then changed his pressure and let the saber slide down and to his left, up the bayonet. That brought the butt around to smash into the cavalryman's cheek, and the Uruk to his right stepped up to put the muzzle of his rifle as close to the dazed man's chest as it would go.

It didn't matter what was up the spout at that range. The dehgan was blasted away as much by gases that didn't have time to dissipate as the bullet, leaving a ragged hole through his armour and torso surrounded by a ring of armour scoured mirror-bright.

"Thanks." Ugbrag said, shaking his head as the adrenaline rush began to fade, then snapped another round into his Isen and took aim again. The Uruks to his left had managed to get the dead horse clear of them and were aiming as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Ugbrag watched the clouds of smoke marching down the line towards him.

_Curst lucky there's a breeze._ He though, absently. _Or we'd be firing into a cloud of our own gunsmoke by now._

The volley reached him again, and he fell back into the metronome routine.

* * *

><p>"That's enough." Marek said. "Sound <em>cease fire<em>."

"Cease fire, aye."

The bugles blew the order, a relatively simple one, and then _execute_. The thunder of the massed volleys died into the occasional single shot, as wounded horses were put down before they hurt someone with their thrashing.

"Better than two thousand casualties, would you say?"

"At least. And they can't have more than a hundred horses left." The adjutant looked over his shoulder, at the few hundred warhorse thundering off at a dead run. Others were dead or dying, the regiment's werewolf auxiliaries bringing another down as he watched to supplement the morning's rations.

"Good." Marek said, analyzing the slope. "We don't know how many died or were wounded in the fortress, but between the morale effect and the loss of the vast majority of their mounts… I would say this cavalry brigade has been destroyed as an effective offensive force. Prepare to move out – we have a long way to go to reach Uldonavan. We'll eat a few miles to the north, to avoid disease from the dead."

"The horses, sir?"

"Hoist them up on the Yurgs – we'll prepare them at the campsite. Inform the auxiliaries that we'll be moving north for an hour and then camp for the morning. They can eat what they want so long as they rendezvous with us by noon."

* * *

><p>Around three miles north, Marek rode in front of the regiment as they came to a stop.<p>

"Nice work, lads! Now, by my count, each of you has done for at least two Easterlings-" that got a cheer, "but we're not done yet! I'm afraid it won't all be that easy." He shrugged, grinning. "Not that it could have been much easier. But I'm sure you all want to get to your badly deferred breakfasts, so I won't keep you. Medical personnel on picket, everyone else go eat."

"'At least two', is it?" his aide murmured, as he set off back to the command group. "I thought we counted a few hundred survivors in the fort by air reconnaissance and that half the casualties were from artillery."

"Close enough. Rolls off the tongue better." Marek replied, glibly. "Besides, the artillerymen are part of the regiment – it averages out."

After a moment's thought, the aide nodded. "Twelve hundred in the regiment, plus artillery – yes, it just works out." He grinned. "Good speech, too."

"Thanks. Now, where's that map… we need to work out our approach in the Dorwinion basin."

* * *

><p>"There's the bridge. Best we're going to get, I think. Unless there's a practicable ford?"<p>

Swift-jaw shook his head. "None we found for a half-day's lope either way."

"That's about a day's march, if not more, then. Must be the rock in this area. Right, that's about fifty Easterlings holding the bridge, and likely two or three times that number in the village." Marek gave a grin. "I think I have an idea."

Tureg and the rest of the command group listened. After he was finished, they got the same slow grin.

"You're mad, but I like it."

"This'll confuse them if anything will." Tureg agreed. "Which company?"

"2/3rd, I think. They've got the best accuracy."

* * *

><p>Widin of Yarvan was trying not to be noticed. It was something that most of the townspeople had had to pick up in a hurry after the East-men came, because being noticed was often the cause of bad news. His own brother had been beaten for jostling one of the haughty Dehgans, and a cousin's daughter had been taken by some of the men-at-arms last night.<p>

She hadn't returned.

It would be nearly as bad for him, if for a different reason, if they ever noticed his right hand. Three seams on the middle fingers revealed his past as a yeoman archer, and everyone knew that the Easterlings solved the problem of trained Dalesmen archers in a simple way. Removal of the offending hand.

Someone shouted in the harsh eastern tongue. Involuntarily, Widin looked up at the source.

There were three or four men-at-arms pointing towards the south bank of the river, and more hurrying over. Even as he watched, some of them started unlimbering their horse bows or heading for the corral their warhorses were in.

Widin slipped between two buildings and headed towards the river himself, trying to decide whether to feel nervous or optimistic.

* * *

><p>By the time he reached the cliff-like bank, the source of their consternation had become clear. A single… something, like a man but far darker, and even taller than most men of the Dale, riding calmly atop a creature that looked like a savage yellowish wolf.<p>

More of the townsfolk were crowding to the riverbank beside him. _Warg_, someone whispered, and he blinked. That was the monstrous beast that the orcs of Mordor were rumoured to breed. But this was no orc… was it? Besides, the men of the east were allied with Mordor.

On the far side of the bridge, within extreme range for composite bow or longbow, the strange orc-man thing stopped and dismounted.

Cupping his hands, he called across the water. "Stand aside, men of the East! Leave this town, or you will not live to see the sunset!"

Harsh laughter answered him. One of the dehgans drew back the string of his bow, and-

A flat, unnerving _crack_ sounded from somewhere. The eastern knight tumbled back, his face a bloody ruin and his bow shattered and forgotten.

Gasps went up. Someone muttered "wizard…"

Widin had to admit, it looked likely. That had sounded like nothing more nor less than a lightning bolt – and if he hadn't seen it, that just meant the magic was different to natural lightning.

What else could smite down a man like that?

Nobody could accuse the Dehgan's retainers of cowardice. Within seconds, they all had their own bows out and drawn.

More cracks sounded, and those men collapsed as well. One with his throat destroyed, two with great holes through their chests and armour, and one with the top of his head demolished.

The stink of death started to tang in Widin's nose, the smell of blood and bodily waste. This was… terrifying. Five men dead in seconds, to magic.

The dark orc-man began to slowly walk forwards. Every time an Easterling readied his bow, that man promptly died – instantly and horribly, his chest blown open or his head _splashed._ A few managed to snatch arrows and fire, but panic drove the shots wide – and none lived to fire a second shot.

When he was halfway onto the bridge, he stopped and raised his hands theatrically. Of the hundred and thirty men-at-arms, forty-seven Dehgans and three Vurzagan who had been in the town, now only ninety men-at-arms and twelve Dehgan were left. They were still standing in the cleared section near the northern end of the bridge itself, but looking increasingly uneasy.

The strange figure gestured forward with his left hand. A thunderous sound came, and fifteen Easterlings fell at once – punched down by the terrible magic. His right hand, and every single remaining Dehgan collapsed with destroyed torsos.

By now the men-at-arms were leaderless and near panic. And then the figure clapped his hands together, and made a gesture as if pushing.

With a rippling _crash_, a blur of motion slammed into the centre of the Easterlings – and erupted with a flash of fire and smoke, sending men and bodies flying.

By the time the smoke cleared, all that was left of the Easterlings who had turned Yarvan upside down was fading hoofbeats, the survivors pushing their horses at a flat gallop to escape. Better to run their horses to death, better anything, than… _that._

The strange man waited a few more seconds, then turned and beckoned to the south. And a little over a hundred, similar-looking… _soldiers_, rose from places of concealment a little back from the bridge. A banner waved at the crest of the first hill, and still more soldiers began to come over towards the bridge.

Widin began to dimly realize that what he'd seen was the capture of the bridge – and associated town – as neatly as you please. He didn't know what the weapons were, what had done that dreadful winnowing, but something told him they _were_ weapons and not magic.

* * *

><p>"Nice work, lads."<p>

The company gave a ragged cheer in response.

"Don't mind telling you, that was bloody terrifying…" Marek barked a laugh. "Bet it confused them, though! Right, we'll need to move straight through here as fast as possible. Check the roadway's clear for the artillery and suchlike."

"Right." One of the platoon commanders jerked his head. "Come on, lads."

Marek watched them go, then stepped back to his Warg and caressed her neck as reassurance.

They _had_ done well. Target shooting was _possible_ with an Isen at easily five hundred metres, but that wasn't the same as saying it was _easy_ to do sniper work. Quite apart from anything else, they'd had to get good fire dispersion.

Luckily, they'd managed to conceal themselves within fifty metres of the south bank, and at _that_ range accuracy was almost trivial. The timing had been perfect, too – light enough that the muzzle flashes didn't show up, but the morning mist still concealed the spurts of smoke from the rifles.

Within a few months, it would likely become harder to manage that sort of thing. But since bows could only be fired while standing, and crossbows were relatively pathetic when they were available at all, to most people a sniper _had_ to be standing up.

"How's the weather?"

"Alright for now." The crow answered. "But I don't like the look of the sky to the east. It'll be rain before tomorrow."

"Good."

The crow blinked in surprise, and Marek grinned toothily. "Bows don't cope with rain well. And Isens and our field guns work just fine – better, even, because the rain cools the breech. I think that the idea of facing a Rhûn cavalry battalion is much less worrying if their horses are operating on thick mud and their bows don't work."

He laughed. "Hell, if they're composite bows they might fall apart! That'd be a laugh."

* * *

><p>The wet slap of boots on a muddy track filled the afternoon, audible through the pounding rain, as the Blood and Steel regiment marched west below the storm.<p>

Marek remembered his earlier words, and gave a grimace. He'd underestimated just how wearing it could be to route-march in heavy rain, because most of the empty lands of Rhovanion tended to the dry. But Dorwinion was well supplied with water by the sea of Rhûn, and rain was much more frequent.

"Stupid of me…" he muttered, then looked at the crow riding his shoulder. "Alright, beaky, you're for work again. We're only a few miles from Uldonavan by my count, so let them know we're coming."

The crow nodded, then launched herself out of the shade of his hat into the downpour and winged away.

"Hope they'll bloody well listen…"

Then he grinned, and urged his Warg forward to the musicians marching at the front of the column. "Let's let 'em know we're coming, lads! Not far now! Let's have Birds of Prey!"

There was a laugh for his choice, and then the instruments started up. The column perked up a little, and began to march slightly more sharply.

"March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.

Front! - eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip… "

* * *

><p>"Yes, we're expecting them." The commander of the Uldonavan garrison said. He had the scars of a man promoted from the ranks, and the ring of a baron – not mutually exclusive in the young nation. "A regiment from… Isengard, wasn't it? I'm surprised that place still has a Gondorian garrison."<p>

"You might have missed something in the King's message." The crow said, rolling her eyes. "They aren't Gondorian – they're not human, as a point of fact, all but a few – but they're much better than that. Saruman the Wise sent one of his regiments of Uruk infantry, and there's none finer."

"Uruks?" he grimaced. "Not so sure about it all now, but I'll take any port in a storm. There's ten thousand cavalry in the basin if there's a man, and I'm having to arm peasants with modified scythes and pitchforks to manage to man the walls."

"Closer to twenty. I saw them yesterday. But there's good news, at that – they're a good few days away still, since we punched out their picket in Yarvan. And the _three_ thousand cavalry coming from the south."

"South?" the baron said, blanching. "A flanking move? Well, I should have expected it, and if you say it's gone then there's no problem from that quarter. I'll head to the gatehouse to have the gates ready. If you'll excuse me?"

"Not a problem. I'll head back and let the Colonel know."

* * *

><p>The first that the rain-drenched swordsmen on the walls of Uldonovan heard was the drums, beating out a steady tattoo. The bugles followed, piercing the rain as easily as they could the din of the battlefield, and then the sound of over a thousand voices roaring in time.<p>

_ "Wonderful little, when all is said,_

_ Wonderful little our fathers knew._

_ Half their remedies cured you dead-_

_ Most of their teaching was quite untrue-_

_ "Look at the stars when a patient is ill._

_ (Dirt has nothing to do with disease),_

_ Bleed and blister as much as you will,_

_ Bister and bleed him as oft as you please."_

_ Whence enormous and manifold_

_ Errors were made by our fathers of old."_

In a dressed column of fours, preceded by their band and followed by the Logistics and Artillery units, twelve hundred Uruk-Hai marched into Uldonovan.

* * *

><p>Marek peeled off from the column, and rode ahead to the town square. The civilians in the square shrank back, giving his unit space, and they formed into company blocks in front of him and the baron.<p>

"Ten-shun! Present arms!"

A mass thud, the rippling of movement, and twelve hundred Uruks brought their weapons to parade-perfect positioning.

"Baron. May I present my regiment, the Blood and Steel. Reporting for duty, for actions against Easterling forces in the Dorwinion basin."

To his credit, the baron of Uldonovan managed to get over his surprise with admirable speed. "Pleasure, Colonel. We have part of the barracks reserved, will that suffice for billeting?"

"It'll do, though I'll want to speak to a blacksmith about a reloading shop. But that's for later. For now…" Marek turned back to his men. "You've done me proud, lads. Forty-five miles a day, and not a yard less! Now, this is the bit where you get to rest your poor little feet and nurse your bunions.

"The commander of the Easterling forces headed for us is Baresmanas. He thinks he's going to find a town full of refugees, defended by militia and a scattering of professional troops, and he's ready to take the casualties he needs to take to get over the walls quick.

"But he doesn't know the Second is here. And we'll show him what kind of casualties the Blood and Steel will give him.

"I don't need to tell you that we're guests here. None of you break anything, or mess with a woman, or we'll be kicked out on our arses and have to fight the Easterlings without a nice high wall to hide behind! That's everyone else, of course, because I'll turn anyone who _does_ something like that into our new banner – using the sharp end of the flagpole!

"Now, fall out to quarters, if you please."

* * *

><p>Baresmanas slapped the exhausted armsman across the face. "Coward! Fool! Son of fools, and of oxen! You are no more a man than the weevils that crept into your bed this morning, looking for their kin! You ran from one man!"<p>

"A wizard!" another of the men-at-arms said, kneeling before him. "He smote down all our commanders, and tore up the earth! We could not stand before him!"

"You think to convince me with tales of magic? I am not heat-addled, to believe any tale from the desert. All you had to do – _all_, incompetent, was to meet the reinforcements from the south. Instead, you run for three days and nights, kill half your horses, and come babbling about sorcery!"

Baresmanas smiled, suddenly. "But I am not a harsh man. You will have a chance to redeem your honour. All you must do is to raise the flag over the walls of Uldonavan first."

Some of the men sighed with relief. Others, quicker thinking, paled.

"Yes, this means you will be first to the walls. I could not deprive you of the chance to earn your redemption, could I?"

* * *

><p>"And… <em>heave<em> away."

Four Wargs and a dozen Uruks pulled hard on the ropes, and on the other end of the pulley a rapidgun went jerking up to the fighting platform on the eastern wall of Uldonovan.

"_Good_ work, lads." The Artillery lieutenant nodded, as the ropes were slacked off and the stubby weapon taken up by another group of Uruks on the wall. "That's the third one on this side, so that should be all of them. Sir, you want us to put the guns up there too?"

"Not unless they start building artillery pieces of their own or siege towers." Marek said, shaking his head. "The racking stress is too much for a wall like this, long term. If they just make a direct escalade and bounce off, I want as much firepower available for the pursuit. If they do put in a full-dressings attack, we'll have time for a ramp."

"Of course. Sorry, sir."

"No problem." Marek frowned, suddenly taken by a thought. "One of you Dalesmen. What's the range of a Dale longbow fired from this kind of height?"

"Call it five hundred yards, for volley fire on an army. That's the outer edge."

"Half the range of an Isen, then…" Marek chuckled. "Anyone here familiar with ranging posts?"

"Yes, they're a standard trick. Why?"

"I think I'll go speak to the Baron."

* * *

><p>"Why do you want to put up ranging posts? We want them to <em>not<em> know our ranges, so they'll stay well out of them and have a longer run to the wall."

"No, you don't." Marek grinned. "My riflemen outrange your bowmen by five hundred yards. If they set up just out of bow volley range, they'll be easily inside the range my men can pick their targets. And I think you'll find it is _very_ hard to pack up and shift camp while under fire."

Snapping his fingers, Marek turned. "Actually, that reminds me. Can you muster everyone in your garrison? I want to make sure they know what our weapons sound and look like, so they're ready for the shock."

"It can't be that bad, can it?" the baron asked. "I assume they're some kind of compact crossbow, or scorpion? An internal string, perhaps some kind of spring loading? I can see why you'd hide them inside the metal tube, it'd make them much less vulnerable to rain."

"Not a bad guess, actually, and functionally you're correct – but it's rather more impressive than that."

* * *

><p>"Right!" a hard voiced sergeant shouted, to the two ranks of five Isen soldiers on the archery range. Most of the Uldonovan garrison were crowded into the area behind and to the side of them, the rest in buildings to look over these strange foreign troops practising. "On the word of command… load!"<p>

Both ranks snapped open their breeches, slid home a round and closed them again. The rifles stayed grounded, with their muzzles pointed at the ground; improper handling of firearms was, as had been repeatedly impressed on them, highly dangerous.

"First rank, kneel! Bring up arms, take aim!"

The front fire team went down on one knee, clearing the way for the second team to aim over them. All ten rifles swung up in unison, then rippled slightly as each Uruk picked his target.

"By ranks, front rank fire!"

The _BAM_ echoed out, startling birds into flight and provoking cries of shock from onlookers, as the fire-cored plume of smoke shot from each gun – and then, more surprise, as the archery targets sent up great plumes of straw. Arrows sunk in, and tore; these strange weapons _smashed._

"Second rank, fire!"

Another crisp _BAM_, and more acrid smoke joined what was already there. The light rain hissed on hot metal in the breeches of the rifles as the first rank reloaded, not hurried but at a steady pace.

It was about seven seconds after the first shots that the front rank brought up their rifles again, and snapped out a third five-shot volley. By now the picked targets were beginning to come apart from damage.

Four more metronomic volleys crackled out, before the sergeant called the halt. The second rank froze with their chambers open, then closed them without reloading and returned the rounds to their ammunition bags.

"And gather up the spent brass."

* * *

><p>Marek nodded to himself, seeing the shock on the Dalesmen's faces fading into resolution. <em>For now, they think they can actually win this.<em>

Then a crow darted to his shoulder. "Trouble! Someone's made a run for the gate. He's on horseback."

The colonel bit off a curse, and ran to the stable block of the Uruk barracks. Once in, he whistled. His Warg, Iles, barked in response and he hurried over.

"There you are, girl. Right, come on. We've got some work to do."

* * *

><p>"Come on, come on!" Derren hissed, as he pushed the postern gate open. He'd planned on opening the gates, for which he'd been promised his just reward, but this was far more important.<p>

After all, if the people of Uldonovan were going to side with Orcs, didn't that prove they didn't mean any of what they said? Just as he'd thought for years. He was talented enough that he should be far richer than his modest means, and in his more bitter moments he'd thought that hiding his plans under the nose of the baron was proof of that skill.

But this… he would be richly rewarded for bringing such important information about the town's defenders to the people of Rhûn.

Finally the gate was wide enough to admit his horse, and he rode out in a hurry.

* * *

><p>Iles loped down the near-empty streets, saw the postern gate, and growled. Marek didn't try to stop her, and she leapt through it without breaking stride.<p>

He snapped a speedloader into his revolver, and loosened his sabre in its' sheath. One way or another, he was going to have to stop the human – preferably alive, but that wasn't necessary.

It didn't take long to catch up. The Warg was bred from an endurance predator, and could sustain high speed for much further than a horse – though she couldn't overtake, since the realization that a Warg was on its' tail sent the horse into a flat gallop, driven by fear to a pace that would burn her out in minutes.

"It's over, lad!" Marek roared out. "You can come back willingly, with a broken leg, or dead! What's it to be?"

Derren didn't respond, just grimly hunching over in the saddle.

"Right, you asked for it." Marek pointed the revolver into the air and fired. The sound of the shot caused Derren's horse to jump with shock, and it tripped at full gallop.

Iles skidded to a halt alongside the resultant tangled mess, and the Uruk colonel shook his head. "I told you, you bastard. Right, let's get that poor thing off you."

Two more Uruks and some of the baron's guard rode up as he dismounted, and he filled them in quickly. "The crows caught sight of him, he was running like hell. Not sure if he's a spy or just panicked, but either way he knows about the rifles and we don't want the commander of that Rhûn host to find out just yet."

One of the guards nodded, a slow grin spreading over his face. "Too right, Colonel. It'll be very satisfying indeed to see the Easterlings having to cope with your _guns_."

"You think those were nice, wait until you see the _cannon_. It may be there's too many Easterling soldiers for us to stop, but if they do come over that wall it'll only be because we run out of ammo!"

"That much of a risk?"

"Good question." Marek became more sombre. "I'm looking into setting up a reloading shop, but it's tricky – rounds really need drawn brass and moulded lead, but the actual gunpowder is easy so long as there's sulphur. Best speak to Logistics about that."

* * *

><p>AN: Yes, this is still updating. (A chapter is never late, nor is it early…)<p>

This is the eastern theatre of the war, something not all that well covered in the original books. Probably because none of the point of view characters actually went there. So I'm using Third Age Total War as a guide for the armies, hence why the Dale are sword-and-shield mixed with longbow and the Rhun forces are essentially a cross between Sassanid Persia and the halberd hedges of the Ottoman Empire.

Also, I'm running out of easily adapted marching songs that aren't wildly obscene.


	6. Chapter 6

_Further improvements possible. Industrialization of siege warfare. Fighting into Mordor will require means to more effectively defeat mass attack._

"Show me."

Central complied. First came images of the replacements for gunpowder – semi-smokeless or smokeless powder, which burned far more completely, giving more energy to the bullet for the same charge, And did not produce the choking clouds that would eventually force a whole army to fire blind.

_Greater effort for same amount. Same impact from a smaller charge._

_Too much heat and pressure for current designs to bear easily. Better metal for jackets. Centerfire cartridges. Necked cartridges._

Then Central displayed a complex metal crank-driven system. It was like the rapidgun, but with only ten barrels, around the edge of a cylinder – and the cylinder had ten carved notches, each with a piston that moved back and forth.

_Observe._

A hand turned the crank. As a notch rotated to the top of the device, the piston drew back and allowed a necked cartridge to fall into it from a hopper – rear towards the piston. Then the notch rotated down again, and was enclosed by the outer cylinder cupping the rotating shaft. The piston in that notch moved forward, and struck the cartridge's primer.

With a thin wisp of smoke, the bullet shot forth. It did not escape Saruman's notice that each of the ten barrels was effectively at a different point in the process – and hence, the weapon was reloading nine barrels as it fired one.

_Rate of fire of 200 rounds continuous with untrained operators, maximum depends on precise design but limited mainly by cranking speed. 700 rounds per minute achievable, 1500 theoretical maximum._

"What of overheating?"

_Use of multiple barrels and fast movement thereof aids cooling. Jams still possible._

"Can the weapon not be cooled some other way? By water, perhaps?"

_Maxim gun. Water cooled, recoil operated, single barrel. Belt feeding becomes necessary – more difficult to manufacture._

"So." Saruman rubbed his temples, and looked across the hive of activity that was Isengard. "The problem, then, is not to reach too far. With the Gatling, a standard cartridge is still possible."

_Optimum lethality necessitates divergence of cartridges. Rifle calibre – long range, small, high speed, aerodynamic. Pistol calibre – short range, less need for velocity, more wounding power. Larger._

"That will of course make supply more difficult…" Saruman mused.

_Observe._

A brigade-strength force of Isengard troops, a little over three thousand strong, marched through the close terrain of the Morgul Vale.

A crow's call split the air. With disciplined precision, the soldiers closed ranks and formed square as hordes of orcs swarmed towards them from north and east.

Field guns and rapidguns slashed out, cutting into the horde, which closed up around the momentary holes like water. Rifle fire came with metronomic precision.

Every volley smashed over a thousand orcs to the ground, but they kept coming at a jog. Trolls began to follow them over the ridgeline, and took dozens of shots each to kill.

Rocks and arrows rained down on the close-packed lines of riflemen, smashing them to the ground or causing innumerable minor wounds. With quiet discipline, they kept their ranks closed and dressed… and their numbers dwindled.

Then, with shocking suddenness, the charge reached the square itself. Rifle fire abruptly slacked off as the soldiers had to resort to bayonets, and the square bulged in on a side from the sheer shock of the charge.

The Uruks on the north side of the square didn't break. They simply died in place, and then hundreds of unwounded orcs rolled up both sides of the formation and went over it like a breaking wave.

The three bannermen were the last to fall, one across the corpse of Lugdush right at the centre of the square.

Saruman shivered. "How?"

_Tactics based on volley fire presuppose an enemy that fears death._

"And with the Witch-King behind them, they fear him more. I understand."

_Continuous fire more effective for causing mass casualties._

* * *

><p>"Third platoon!" Lurtz roared, over the crackle of rifle fire. "Limlights! Second platoon, get that fucking lizard off our backs!"<p>

Five thunderous seconds as third platoon discharged their quick-firing weapons at a wedge of oncoming trolls preceded a single sharp _crash_. The enormous monster swooping down on the Farsights flinched, pocks appearing on its skin as at least a dozen bullets hit home.

"Third, form line! First, fall back one hundred yards and form a second line! I want a bounding retreat!"

The first platoon used their own revolvers to momentarily break contact, swung up into the saddles of their wargs and pelted south past Third. Five seconds after they'd threaded between the other wargs, they slid to a halt and readied their Isens. Third were already in the saddle themselves, and as they cleared the range First Platoon fired a single volley at the oncoming horde.

Emaciated Mordor Wargs and their riders went down in a tangle of limbs, fouling those following behind them and allowing First to mount up again.

Second, meanwhile, were otherwise occupied. The Fell Beast had a thick hide and, being airborne, was much harder to aim at than trolls or orcs – none of their drills had even covered the possibility. But the smoke and flame of the rifles was warning it off to some extent, and the occasional bullet that hit home on the wings punched a hole in the thin membrane.

Everyone in the company winced as a horrible screech rent the air, the Fell Beast's rider making himself felt once more.

"I think he's bloody pissed off!" Glod observed cheerily, flourishing the banner. "Maybe it's all that walking!"

"Any idea which it is?" the commander asked, hands working automatically to load a new round.

Edel pointed. "That's an Easterling crown. I think it's Khamûl."

"Good eyes." Lurtz nodded, and fired at the black rider. The bullet hit the Fell Beast in the nose, and it roared in pain.

Two of the auxiliaries pounced on the pursuing warg pack leader, and another bit his rider's head off. The remaining Mordor Wargs flinched in instinctive deference to the winner of the struggle, and Lurtz decided there wouldn't be a better chance.

"Break off! Head for yesterday's camp!"

Around a hundred and twenty Isengard Wargs, their riders, and a dozen werewolves spun and sprinted for the treeline. By the time the Mordor forces' discipline had reasserted itself, their prey were already well into Mirkwood.

* * *

><p>"What are we going to do about that lizard?" Graz asked, riding alongside Lurtz and Fenca.<p>

"Well, it's not going to be able to follow us in here. The trees are too big." Lurtz said, his voice hoarse from directing the battle. "Besides, with enough of us firing we might actually get it in the eye or something."

On the other side, the sergeant in charge of the auxiliaries growled. "Better to go for its wings. If it has to land, my pack will tear it apart."

"True." Lurtz nodded, then looked up at the whirr of wings.

"Lurtz." Saruman's voice came from the throat of the crow. "Your situation?"

The Uruk grimaced. "Not good. We demonstrated against Dol Guldur to distract them from the Fellowship, and got pounced by an entire cavalry battalion with a Nazgul in support. The Nine are now employing flying reptiles as mounts, much like dragons though without the fire. We found it hard to even hit, and the hide is thick enough to turn bullets even at fairly close range."

"I see." The crow alighted on his shoulder, smoothly compensating as Fenca leapt a small stream. "And what of your supplies?"

"Better." Lurtz allowed. "We lost more of my men in the action than we gained when that support echelon brought us ammunition, but the auxiliaries have proved their worth. Current strength is one hundred and eighteen rifles, three wargs whose riders are dead, and a dozen werewolves, along with around two hundred and ten rounds per rifle."

"Adequate." Saruman said. "You must travel next to the seeing seat at Amon Hen, and determine the best way to assist the Fellowship."

"Tricky." The commander said. "The main problem is what route to take to get into Mordor at all. I'm starting to think we'll have to invest the Black Gate and force the Morgul Vale."

"Perhaps, perhaps. Inform me if anything changes."

"I will, lord." Lurtz nodded, and the crow gravely returned the nod before taking wing once more.

* * *

><p>Saruman stood back. "Troubling."<p>

Central was silent.

"That vision you showed me the first day – the aircraft? Would it be possible for us to build one?"

_Engines with high power to weight ratio required. Steam insufficient._

The White Wizard looked down at the rail sheds. The Central-provided plans for triple expansion engines were being followed to the letter, and there were currently four locomotives under construction.

"Show me."

_Internal combustion engine. Use of hydrocarbon fuel – higher energy density. Explosion driven pistons._

"With that complexity we'd need to have the engine hand made." Designs flickered in front of Saruman's eyes – monoplanes, biplanes, canvas wings or monocoque construction, single engine or two, puller or pusher.

_Primary requirement is air superiority. Small number of dedicated fighters conjectured to be adequate._

"Right. Engine first, I think – they could be passed off as a concept for the armoured car prototype."

* * *

><p>"And that's that." Ternak said, putting the last sheaf of papers down. "Supplies for a month for a full field army, able to move at cavalry overland speed."<p>

Even without the locomotives built, the railway lines would still be a great help – draft animals could pull much more weight along the rails than along uneven ground, and the gauge size let them stack wargs three abreast.

His second in command handed him another bureau. "These are the details on the sloop project. It's going to take about three weeks to get them to a navigable part of the Entwash."

"Of course it is." Ternak leafed through. "I see the guns are ahead of schedule. How goes sail drill?"

"Adequate – barely. It's a good thing they have Lunes covering all fields of fire, because they're going to manoeuvre like pigs until the crew are better drilled." The 2IC shrugged. "Best I can do."

"Well, they're only a stopgap."

Uglúk walked over. "Are you two arguing about that brown-water navy again? Don't worry, there're two of the new steam engines being set aside for the gunboat designs. Pity we don't have those ready to go, like the sloops…"

"The timber for the permanent ships needs to season as long as possible." Ternak began.

"I know, I know." Uglúk punched him on the shoulder, not nearly hard enough to actually hurt. "You remind us often enough."

"That's my job." Ternak grinned. "Logistics is basically telling everyone else why they can't have what they want yet. Speaking of which, any progress on that project of yours?"

"Some." Uglúk sighed. "I've worked out we need to absorb the recoil somehow and return the piston gradually, but there'd be too much fouling to do it properly if I capture some of the gases."

"What about having the cylinder open at the base at the extreme end of the cycle? Then it would dump some of the solid fouling products."

"Tricky. It might cause it to be unable to return. Though perhaps I should try something hydraulic instead… so it forces a piston up with the recoil, and the gun goes back on its casement, and then the return of the piston lifts it back into battery."

"Would there be enough force?" the logistics specialist asked, frowning.

"Should be." Uglúk shrugged. "And if it only mostly returns to battery, that's still better than before."

"Yes… but in that case barrel heat becomes a limiting factor."

"Hmmm, true. Well, even if sustained fire still has to have the same speed, it'd be useful for bursts – like when being charged."

"What about…"

* * *

><p>"Lord Wizard!"<p>

Saruman looked down from one of Orthanc's balconies. "What is it?"

"Elves, to see you, sir!"

"I shall be right down." _Strange. Do you have any ideas, Central?_

The computer was silent at first, as Saruman descended the steps of the large tower.

_Probability of peaceful reasons for meeting, 15 percent plus or minus 2 percent._

"About what I thought…" The wizard's right hand touched a holster hidden beneath his robes, to reassure himself it was there. "We can only hope that it does not result in violence."

_Probability-_

_No need._ Saruman replied mentally, as he reached the tower's ground floor and hastened to the doors. _I can guess._

* * *

><p>The white wizard swept past a gathering platoon of guards, and through the open main gates. "Elladan, of Imladris." He began, eyes darting from the face of the elven lordling to a half-dozen other elves, standing before their graceful steeds and with their weapons ready to hand.<p>

"Saruman." The elf said the name like it was a curse. "Have you come to meet me to gloat?"

_Warning. Subject Elladan and his companions are extremely agitated._ Central's blood-flow analysis plots appeared as Saruman's perception slowed, and then a green grid dropped over his sight. _The red dot will indicate the aiming point of the revolver._

Saruman fought back a wince. Central must be _very_ worried if it was taking measures like this.

_Worry is for biological entities. I perform statistical analysis._

Saruman noticed that two of the elves were faintly strobing in the grid, and realized that those two were the ones with their bows and quivers most readily to hand.

Pushing that realization away with an effort, he frowned. "I am not aware of a reason I should gloat."

Elladan bit off a curse, and visibly calmed himself. When he resumed, his tone was like ice. "Maybe you are not. But because of your infernal weapons, my brother lies in Imladris with his arm broken."

At a gesture, the elf to his left threw a long package to the floor.

Saruman reached down to take it with his left arm, keeping his right ready for a quick draw if it became necessary, and slowly unwrapped the cloth.

Inside was a long metal cylinder, with a crude grip at one end. The cylinder was hollow, and-

Central's grid flashed again, this time on the implement. _Musket. Early model – Arquebus. Muzzle loading matchlock. Primitive, low rate of fire, short range._

Saruman didn't need the computer to go on. This was _not_ a weapon ever made by Isengard.

"Where did you get this?" he asked, looking straight up at Elladan. Some of the shock he felt must have shown in his face, because Elladan's own expression became slightly less confrontational.

"Up towards Gundabad, a day's ride out from Imladris. Two weeks ago. Elrohir and I were riding sweep, and our troop got the drop on an orc warband – or so we thought. But when we closed in, five of those strange weapons of yours roared like dragons. Elrohir's left arm and chest were struck, and they broke his arm and two ribs and threw him off his horse."

Elladan frowned. "We left none alive."

"Elladan, this is terrible news. This is _not_ a weapon I or any of my men made. It is too crude. This can only mean the Orcs of Gundabad have captured some weapons from Lurtz' reconnaissance troop earlier this winter and managed to duplicate them."

The elven lordling's face turned gelid.

"Exactly. You have three options, Elladan, son of Elrond. Either you stay with your bows and swords and lances, and I will tell you all I know about the limitations and capabilities of gunpowder. Or you supplement them with rifles, and I will provide them… for a price. Or you leave, and seek no help from me."

Elladan discussed things with his band for several minutes. By now, there were hundreds of uruks and others coming to see what the matter was. Saruman didn't make a point of it – time wasn't _quite_ that critical.

"What price?"

Central's face-analysis appeared again. _Subject Elladan is giving high consideration to the offer._

"A formal oath not to use them against Isengard, for each elf who bears one. Permission to construct a rail road to Imladris, and payment for the weapons with trade goods – though I will grant a year's advance on them." Saruman raised an eyebrow. "What do you say?"

More discussion. This went on long enough that Saruman turned and gave a pointed look, and most of the gawkers gave little starts of surprise and went back to their tasks.

"…we may take you up on the offer later, but not now." Elladan eventually answered. "I need to consult with my father. But I ask for instruction on the capabilities of this gun-powder, if that is possible."

"Very well." Saruman turned to the gate guards. "Someone fetch me Raza, and one of Uglúk's assistants. We have some demonstrating to do."

* * *

><p>"Firstly. The strengths of a gunpowder weapon are many. It is powerful, and that power does not depend on the muscle strength of the user. It can punch through armour much like a billhook or the point of a thrusting sword, since the impact pressure is so great. And it is easy to learn."<p>

Raza nodded. "Takes years to learn to use a bow. Lifetime, for a human, if you want a really skilled military archer like they have in the Dale."

"What makes it so easy?" Elladan asked.

"Like the Wizard said, it doesn't depend on the muscle strength of the user. And with a weapon as crap as this, it doesn't even need much skill to aim. No point. So you just train to reload, reload, reload, as fast as you can."

"Which brings up another point." Saruman said. "What else did these orcs have in their possession?"

Elladan looked to one of his companions, and that elf answered. "Normal armour, the same leather-and-splint mess that Gundabad orcs normally have. A few blades, one sword, a bag of sling ammunition – good stuff – and a horn of fire powder."

"Horn…" Saruman said. "Hollowed out, the thin end stoppered and the thick end sealed with cloth? And what was the fire powder like?"

"You're correct, though it leaked when it fell." The elf answered. "And the powder was very coarse."

"That's something." Saruman muttered. "They're using serpentine powder, which isn't as effective and tends to separate out with being shaken. Though that good lead sling ammunition is really arquebus ammunition, which suggests they have a drop tower… Alright. The disadvantages of all gunpowder weapons are based around logistics. You can't reuse gunpowder like you can an arrow. As for the weapons that you have described…"

He held out his hand, and Raza handed over a spare rifle she'd brought over for the demonstration. Placing it next to the Gundabad arquebus, he started comparing. "The Isen rifle is a breech loading, lever operated, rifled, brass cartridge weapon with a percussion based firing mechanism and corned powder. The arquebus is a muzzle loading, smoothbore, loose ball weapon with a matchlock and serpentine powder. Raza, maximum speed firing drill."

"Yes sir!" The colonel turned, snapping out orders to her colour party. "Right, you lot! On the word of command, five rounds rapid!"

Seven Isens went up.

"Fire!"

Rhythmic BAMs sounded at five-second intervals. Not all of them went into the target, since the riflemen weren't bothering to aim particularly well and focusing on speed.

"That's the first difference. Isens can be fired over ten times a minute. With this, I doubt they can manage more than two. Raza, if you please?"

"Alright, sir. I think I know how to handle one of these…" Raza took the arquebus and looked it over. "Any ramrod?"

"I don't think the orcs had one. Did they?" Saruman addressed the end of this question to the elven scout.

"What would it be like?"

"A long stick, perhaps four feet, with a head approximately as thick as the barrel of the gun."

"Yes, but we did not bring it. I thought it was some kind of damaged spear…" Elladan shrugged.

"Do the best you can, Raza." Saruman said apologetically.

"Right-o, sir." She took some gunpowder from a small bag, sprinkling it down the barrel, and then dropped in one of the "sling bullets". It took a couple of taps on the floor before she felt confident that the ball was in place. Once it was, she sprinkled the last of the powder onto the firing pan, cocked back the lever, checked the slow match was lit and pulled the trigger.

The BAM this time was louder than the rifles, and the ball had obviously gone nowhere near the target. Raza repeated the process, and managed to fire the weapon a second time within the minute.

"This thing is bloody heavy, sir." She said, as she grounded it a second time.

Central cut in again. _Approximately seventy percent more metal than an Isen rifle. Still inadequate – weapon is cast iron, and has a 5 percent chance of fracture with use._

_You could have mentioned that before I had her test it!_ Saruman replied.

"Yes, the weight is one of the things which slows reloading." He said out loud. "I would estimate that a skilled and well drilled force could get a firing rate as high as twice per minute. Another disadvantage – accuracy. The ball is smaller than the barrel, and rattles down it so it does not fly true, while unlike a rifle the ball is not spinning and hence has an unstable path."

"So you are telling us that the – arquebus, is a short range, inaccurate weapon?" Some of the elves exchanged relieved looks, while those who were not armed with bows looked less sure.

"Indeed. It also is much more likely to misfire in the rain, and has a not inconsiderable chance of exploding when used. Stay out of range, and you will be safe. But that is the rub – you will not be able to use shock action such as a cavalry charge and remain out of range."

"Now, if they have arquebus, I suspect they will also have a form of cannon. If you would?"

The artillery gunner nodded, and wheeled out an Anduin field gun.

"Once more, this is a far more advanced version of whatever the orcs will have. It is unlikely they will have the ability to fire more than once every six minutes, and they may simply have the barrel lying on a wooden box instead of how the Anduin has its own carriage. But do not assume such weaknesses." Saruman checked the caisson. "This is no good, they certainly won't have impact fuzes. Fetch some solid shot."

"Of course, lord wizard." One of Raza's aides hurried off.

"Load canister. Now, a canister shot is very crude – and very effective. Think of it like loading a catapult with hundreds of small rocks instead of one large one."

With a showman's timing, the gunner pulled the lanyard and canister crashed out, tearing up the ground afresh. Long scars and divots of ground appeared in a fraction of a second.

Elladan gaped.

"Canister is a little longer ranged than an arquebus – perhaps two hundred yards – and since it spreads, it is more likely to hit _something_. But that is still within the range of bowfire. _This, _on the other hand, is not."

"This" was an Anduin solid round shot, one of three the aide had brought back with two helpers from the ammunition dump. Since the weapon used prepared cartridges, the round shot was something of a jury-rigged weapon consisting of a cannonball roped to a standard gunpowder charge.

"Go for a grazing shot, if you can." Saruman said, and stood back.

The first ball that thundered out of the Anduin was a little low, and stuck straight into the ground when it hit. The second was perfect.

A grazing shot ideally struck the ground about two hundred yards in front of the target itself, and bounced. When it did, it caromed through the target formation at waist to chest height, and tore a hole right through from front to back.

While obsolete when airbursting and impact shells are available, it was the most effective form of primitive long range anti-personnel artillery.

"As should be obvious," Saruman said, gesturing to the obliterated targets, "Forming into a compact formation is contraindicated within range of even smoothbore artillery. Your best option is to use skirmish tactics and ambush artillery from the side or rear, or when they are being moved, and then whittle down the remaining orcs from out of gun range. Fortunately, reloading an arquebus on a moving mount is effectively impossible unless it is large enough for a howdah, like a yurg."

"Now, some more specific tactics. If a large enemy army is deployed, you have no hope of beating them. Wait for them to resume the march – it only takes a few dozen arquebus hidden amongst artillery operators to punish an opportunistic cavalry strike, and if a tercio or similar formation is nearby then the gunners can retreat there. Carry some form of metal nail the same size as artillery touchholes-" he broke off to indicate on the captured arquebus what a touch-hole was – "because if you hammer a nail down into it and then cut the head off, the gun is unusable. Another way to destroy a cannon is to fire it with more powder than normal, since that causes it to rupture."

"What is a tercio?" Elladan asked.

"A pike hedge, with arquebusiers on the flanks. The pikes protect the arquebus against assault and launch charges of their own, the arquebus gradually pare down enemy troops and break large mass charges by killing the front runners and scaring their horses. Now, another thing you must beware of is reverse slopes. Never cross a hill or ridgeline en masse without checking beforehand that it is safe, since a company of arquebus hiding just below the ridgeline on the side you cannot see will be able to fire at a range where they will _not_ miss. As for times when you have the advantage; thanks to the loose powder for this kind of firearm, the rain is your best possible time to attack – they will misfire more often than not."

Saruman paused. "More than that is difficult to say – it becomes more complicated and less sure as the situations get more specific. I hope that advice helps you."

"I can only hope that the advice you have given will save elf lives, Curunir. We take our leave." Elladan replied. "Come! We ride north, to Imladris!"

* * *

><p>"Finally." Glod said, cheerily, as the company rode up the hill to Amon Hen. "That was a hell of a trip."<p>

"Tell me about it." Lurtz muttered.

The news that the ambush in the High Pass had supplied the Orcs of Gundabad with the means to replicate their own firearms was terrible. But when Saruman found that they'd had to abandon their dead near Dol Guldur and hence Sauron's armies had guns of their own to copy, Lurtz had been subjected to a rare chewing out from the Wizard.

He understood, really. Saruman was – for the first time that Lurtz had known him – startled. Flustered. And deeply afraid, if not for himself then for the people who worked for him.

Nevertheless, what was done was done.

"Mithrandir!" he said, as Fenca crested the hill. "Good to see you alive. Any trouble out of Dol Guldur?"

"No, we had quite a quiet passage out of Lothlórien. Why?"

"We must have been successful, then." Lurtz scowled. "We took about twenty casualties demonstrating against the fortress, mainly thanks to an accursed flying monster. It was ridden by Khamûl, of the Nine."

"Then you have suffered much, to keep our path safe." Legolas bowed his head briefly. "You have my thanks."

"And mine." Boromir said.

Aragorn and Gandalf joined in the general nodding. Gimli just frowned. "I say we could have taken 'em."

Glod grinned. "That's dwarves for you…"

"Mithrandir, we have worse news." Lurtz steeled himself. "The Orcs of Gundabad are making use of gunpowder weapons, and the Orcs of Mordor have captured some at Dol Guldur."

Shock and dismay rippled over the faces of the Fellowship – all of whom had seen at close range what gunpowder could do.

"Accordingly, I have been given permission by Saruman to supply you with emergency weapons. We've lost some revolvers anyway, so there's much less point keeping them secret." Lurtz nodded to an Uruk, who brought over a crate. "There's nine of them in here. We can spare you thirty rounds each, and another eighteen for practice now."

Legolas looked at the weapon with distaste. "What good does it do me?"

"It can be used more effectively in close quarters than a bow." Lurtz shrugged. "And it's better at going through armour. But nothing's forcing you."

"I'll take yours." Boromir said, lifting one of the heavy Limlights. "I've wanted to get my hands on one of these since Moria."

Lurtz gave him a look. "One thing I should make clear. These weapons are personal gifts. They're _not_ from Isengard to Gondor – or Arnor, or Erebor, or the Shire. They are from Isengard to the individuals who have them."

"Of course!" Boromir managed to sound offended.

"Right. Okay, basic gun safety first. Do _not_ point a gun, even if you think it is unloaded, and even if the safety is on, at _anything_ you do not intend to shoot. There's a good reason for that – it's easy to tell when a bow is ready to fire. It's easy to tell when a blade is drawn. But you can _never_ be sure with a gun – so treat it like it's a drawn bow at all times."

He paused. "I think we can mostly skip the bit about aiming, since if you're using this it should be in a melee anyway. Just don't jerk your hand, aim it like you're pointing, and you should be fine. Now, reloading. Hey, Edel! Hand me the dummy rounds."

The indicated human dug in his pockets, and dropped two dozen cartridges onto a cloth Lurtz had ready. The commander promptly snapped the cylinder of his revolver out, fitted six of them, and put it back in.

"Right. Watch how this works. It's what's called double action, so…"

He pointed the revolver into the ground, and slowly squeezed the trigger. On the back of it, near his thumb, a small metal striker pulled back and then snapped forward.

"Striking like that sets the round off. On a single action, you'd need to pull the hammer back manually, but this is made for one handed use. Once you're used to it, you can fire quite fast – like this."

Putting his other hand on the grip as well, Lurtz pointed the revolver at a tree and began pulling rapidly. There were three quick metallic clicks, and then-

BANG!

The hobbits almost fell backwards in shock, and everyone else got a little wide eyed.

"And _that_ is why you're always careful where you point it." Lurtz grinned. "Thanks, Edel."

"No problem, boss."

"What happened there?" Aragorn asked.

"He put a live round in with the inert ones. I could tell the difference because the inert ones all have slight ridging on them – so I made sure the live one was in that cylinder, to make my point. Anyway, watch this."

This time, he reloaded slowly – demonstrating all of what he was doing. The cylinder went out, the five dummy rounds and one empty cartridge were shaken out of it, and one by one six more dummies were put in. Then the cylinder was pushed back into place.

"Faster you can do that the better. Who wants to practice first? Don't worry, there's no more live rounds."

Surprising everyone (including himself), Pippin was the first to give reloading a go. Lurtz passed the task of supervising onto Edel and left to speak with Gandalf.

"There is more bad news, Mithrandir. While scouting reports tell that the Easterlings have stopped sending battalions to the Black Gate, there are still Haradrim flooding into Ithilien and a huge army massing behind Minas Morgul."

"So, it is an invasion of Gondor we must fear." Gandalf sighed. "I am grateful that Rohan, at least, will be relatively safe from attack – we shall need all the aid their horse can give to turn back the tide."

"Oh. Er…" Lurtz shuffled. "There was a fairly major battle on the Isen a short time ago – we got word only recently. Eomer took three thousand horse to destroy the Dunlendings, and got chewed up by some companies of Rifles."

"One quarter the Eotheod." The Grey Wizard said, frowning. "That may leave them too depleted."

"I think Curunir has plans to send most of our available cavalry and dragoons to supplement any Rohan counter-punch to an invasion." Lurtz confided. "With artillery, rapidguns and so on. That kind of support will at least make it much easier to push back the invasion. Past that, it'll take the infantry to push up the Morgul Vale – especially if the orcs start deploying artillery of their own."

"I must confess I have little idea of the effectiveness of gunpowder artillery." Gandalf said. "But if it is as much greater than a ballista as your rifles are greater than a crossbow…"

"More so, really." Lurtz said. "Though, actually… I might suggest to Saruman next time I speak to him that we start shipping export versions to Gondor. There's a lot of manpower there."

"Export versions? I don't follow."

"Basically…" Lurtz shrugged. "Muzzle loading expanding-base minié ball and paper cartridge rifles. They fire slower than an Isen, but they're almost as powerful – and it'll be a step up from anything smoothbore. And, crucially, all it takes to make the ammunition is gunpowder, paper and lead."

"I see." Gandalf mused. "So, you seek to make Gondor able to produce its own ammunition."

"Yes. I think there's a rail road being built through Emnet at maximum speed, so supplying the Army of the Morgul Vale won't be too problematic, but every bit of lessened supply load works. Oh, rail road. Er, it's a pair of metal rails on wooden slats which means that pulling heavy loads is easier. It can be used by draft animals, but…" Lurtz shook his head. "I'm rambling, sorry. Anyway, did you want one of those revolvers? I think everyone else has done their reloading practice by now."

* * *

><p>Some time later, the Fellowship and Lurtz' top officers were standing atop Amon Hen. Using the strange and ancient magic of the Seeing Seat, they could see for hundreds of miles in every direction.<p>

"Good." Lurtz grunted, looking east. "The recon information was right – there's no Easterlings on the way along the northern mountains… and, well. It looks like Marek's making his presence felt!"

Gandalf looked in the same direction. "Ah, the people of the Dale. It has been too long since I walked that pleasant land."

"I agree." Gimli said. "The Men of the Dale are staunch allies, and the perfect complement to us dwarves!"

Legolas found his own people with ease, despite their camouflage. "My father's troops are moving out, in two columns. One is headed south, to Dol Guldur, to aid the Galadhrim in containing that dark place… the other is heading east, to the Dale."

Boromir and Aragorn said nothing, both looking in an entirely different direction. South and west, to the White City.

"Right." Lurtz said eventually, spreading his map on the floor. "What now? I doubt you'll want to go through the mountains encircling Mordor."

"No." Gandalf confirmed. "Were it not for these fell beasts, I might have done – but we would be too vulnerable on the stark mountainsides."

"Right. That leaves the Black Gate, the Morgul Vale, that path though Cirith Ungol, or just going east around the mountainwall." Lurtz marked each one out. "Black Gate would be tricky. That fortress is the strongest thing in the world."

Gimli bristled, and Lurtz held out a hand. "I'm not besmirching Dwarven stonecraft. But the Black Gates are made of nearly solid stone and iron, tens of metres thick and high. It would take years to batter a way through, it's so high and the surface so uneven that escalade is exceedingly difficult, and since there's an entire army camp with over a hundred thousand orcs on the other side – along with Morannon Orcs guarding the gates themselves…" Lurtz shrugged. "That's not a place you want to go with just nine men."

Taking his blade, he tapped the dead marshes. "In the longer term, we might want to set up an Army of Ered Luthien to bottle up that army in the black gate. One good thing about that terrain is that it's perfect for gunpowder. Nice and flat. But anyway, I don't think that's a safe route."

"Moving down into Ithilien, there's the Morgul Road and the Spider's Nest pass. I don't know much about Cirith Ungol – does Shelob still lair there as she used to?"

Gandalf shook his head. "I do not know, Lurtz."

"Damnation. We'll have to assume she does. That'll be a difficult path in any case, because of the fortress-tower itself. There's no space for more than a few to travel that way at a time, so we wouldn't be able to help you directly."

"Nevertheless, such a constricted route would be of great help to our quest." Gandalf said. "It plays to the advantage of our company."

"Right. But you'll still need the Morgul Road clear up to where the stair starts." Lurtz drew in the dust atop Amon Hen for a moment. "Right… I'd advise stopping by with the Rangers in Ithilien. Or pulling back to Minas Tirith if necessary – even if we start now, we can't get infantry into position to start working up the Morgul Vale for at least a few weeks." He turned to Boromir. "What about Cair Andros?"

"That would work." The captain of Gondor agreed. "It's far enough from the city itself that I can feel confident politics will not intervene, I have the rank to take command of the city – and Aragorn does even if I do not – and it places us well to move through North Ithilien."

"Good. I'll take my company and start ensuring the path is clear." Lurtz nodded to the platoon commanders, who got moving… then stopped, frowning to the south. "That can't be good."

"What?" several asked at once.

He pointed. "There's several large Haradrim armies moving in Ithilien, but more importantly look to the east of Minas Morgul."

Boromir cursed. "That's the largest field army in two hundred years…"

"And it's probably aiming for Minas Tirith." Lurtz agreed, grimly. "Look again at the south. See how Umbar is swarming with activity? This is a carefully coordinated strike – the fiefdoms raided such as they have not been in generations, and Gondor proper assaulted by an overwhelming force."

Gandalf scanned across to Minas Tirith itself. "I must go and persuade Denethor to light the beacons."

"No." Boromir said, shaking his head. "He won't listen – not to you alone. He's always been suspicious of wizards – and elves, and dwarves, and men of the north. He's… a great man, but he sees only Gondor's pain."

"Right." Lurtz nodded. "So he'll ask why they never helped before, and that'll make him too prideful to accept help now. That means you'll have to go."

"It does." Boromir agreed. "He'll listen to me. But that might cause problems in Cair Andros."

Gandalf gave Aragorn a look. "You must see, Aragorn."

"I will not take up Isildur's mantle only to rule." Aragorn said. "Not to order others to follow me. I would have them follow me by choice."

"You would not need to order." Boromir said, quietly but firmly. "I would follow you – so would others. I know the lord of Cair Andros, and he would ride with you whether you were ranger or king."

After several seconds, Aragorn nodded. "If the steward's heir bids me, I will."

"It might be just in time…" Lurtz muttered, using his rare telescope to boost the effect of the Seeing Seat's magic. "There's a large force already headed for the city. We can get there in time if we push hard – and the hobbits and dwarf ride double, or in boats down the Anduin."

Gandalf frowned. "Very well. Boromir, we must head west to Rohan for you to pick up a horse."

"No need." Lurtz said. "We have a warg going spare."

Boromir blinked in shock. "I do not know how to ride a warg…"

"They're actually smarter than most horses." Lurtz shrugged. "If Mithrandir is to ride Shadowfax, you might actually slow him less on a warg than a horse."

The Captain still looked thoroughly dubious.

* * *

><p>"Right, up you go." Graz said, soothing the warg Boromir was to ride – a bitch by the name of Myrna.<p>

Myrna whined as the new human got onto her back, occasionally flinching slightly as his equipment dug in. She gave a pleading look to the nearby Fenca, who gave a gesture remarkably like a shrug.

"There you go." Graz stood up, grinning slightly at the sight of famed Boromir so nervous. "Don't worry, she _does_ know you're friendly, she's just uncertain. She lost her last rider only a few days ago."

"I know how that affects horses…" Boromir agreed. "And if wargs are as intelligent as the legends say, and as affectionate as the hunting dogs I have hunted with in my youth, I can see how it would be worse for them."

Myrna craned her neck around and licked his left hand. He visibly controlled a flinch, and she made a slight approving noise.

"Okay. Unlike horses, they don't get fatigued very easily – and it's much less necessary to give wargs a rub down. Just let her do the running, she knows to follow Shadowfax. If it becomes necessary to stop her doing something, either slap her lightly on the back of the head or tell her off sternly." Graz ticked off points on his fingers. "It'll strengthen the bond if you share food with her when you stop. And when you get to Gondor proper, make sure she's properly taken care of, alright?"

"How's that?" Boromir asked.

"Mash, not hay, and the odd cut of meat. Wargs can go for weeks at a time without actual meaty food, but they _do_ need it. She knows about not fouling, either, so long as she's let out."

"Actually…" Lurtz said, having been watching with some amusement. "It might be better if you go with them, lieutenant. You know enough about taking care of wargs, and you'll be able to bring her back to Cair Andros if keeping her in Minas Tirith proves impossible. And, of course, you can show off our guns to the Steward."

"If you say so, sir." Graz saluted. "Only, lieutenant, sir?"

Lurtz tossed him a pair of rank tags. "Congratulations on your commission. I couldn't send anyone lower ranked alone to a major national court, could I?"

* * *

><p>AN: This is where things get troublesome. While the orcs of Gundabad are very quick adopters to get those weapons out that fast, I'm partly basing that on the evidence (such as from the Hobbit part 1) that the orcs and goblins of the north include a number of skilled and innovative engineers. These arquebus are about as bad as the Isen people are saying - but infinitely better than nothing.<p>

Also, would you look at that. The Fellowship is still broken by Lurtz at Amon Hen. Allohistorical irony...

* * *

><p>Oh, here's a bit of the list-of-people table I use to keep track. All the first ten uruks from chapter one are marked as "first generation".<p>

1st Recon (Longsights) regiment  
>Lurtz - recon commander (Warg Fenca) (1st generation), sniper rating at 1000 yards.<br>-Colour sergeant Glod  
>-Graz, Lieutenant (detached to Boromir)<br>-Edel, Moritz - troopers

1st infantry (Hammers of Dawn) regiment  
>Lugdush - line infantry (Warg Morna) (1st generation)<br>-Radnag - second company

1st dragoons (Flameseekers) regiment (AKA Lhachfaroth)  
>Mauhúr - commander (1st generation) (Warg Giren)<p>

Uglúk - siege weapons and artillery (1st generation)  
>Retzen - head of initial Dale delegation<p>

Ternak - logistics (1st generation)

Skara - medical (1st generation)

Oglo - scouting (1st generation) (Warg Tremare)

2nd infantry (Blood and Steel) regiment  
>Marek - line infantry (1st generation)<br>(in Dale)

3rd infantry (Disaster's Blade) regiment  
>Raza - line infantry (1st generation)<p>

1st cavalry (Death Dealers) regiment  
>Kerkú - cavalry (1st generation) (Warg Soren)<br>(Sharku - orc, Warg specialist, senior nco of cavalry unit)

Saruman the White  
>Warg Huan<p> 


	7. Chapter 7

Ugbrag jerked awake at the sound of trumpets. _What…_

It took only a moment to remember. That was the call to _reveille,_ and then _stand to_, over and over.

He snatched up his webbing from next to the bed, then reconsidered and slipped on the chain mail of his battledress first.

"What's goin' on?" he heard several other uruks ask.

"Hell if I know, now hurry up!" the L.T. snarled. As if to underscore the emergency, there was the rippling _braap_ of a Lune rapidgun over the trumpet call. "Sounds like the Easterlings are putting in a full attack, though."

"Damnation…" Ugblag finally got his uniform together, and snatched up his weapon. "Sarge?"

"Not just yet." The platoon sergeant said from the door, listening to the shouted commands. "Okay, now!"

"Nearest the door first, column of twos!" the lieutenant rapped out. "Form up with the rest of the company on the training ground. At the double!"

* * *

><p>As the company doubled towards the western wall in the pre-dawn gloom, Ugbrag could see a mounting column of smoke rising from each of the towers with rapidguns in, and hear the crackle of Isens as the duty watch on the walls gave fire. More and more uruks were doubling onto the wall from both corners, having come from the north and south walls at maximum pace.<p>

A _thump_ came from inside the city, as most of the Branduin mortars began dropping rounds over into the cleared zone. Pennants waved from the towers, and he guessed they were trying to walk their fire into the enemy formation.

_Cursed expensive of ammo, even if it does work…_ he thought. They were hardly within easy range of the Isengard stockpiles, after all.

The remaining mortar was doing something arguably more important. A harsh white light blazed overhead as a starshell gave the Isengarders light to work with.

The steps were shallow – the further an attacker had to walk before they were off the wall the better – but narrow enough that the company could only move up in a single file. Other companies made for other stairs, and a scattering of longbowmen and spearmen filed into the towers.

"Ah, fukit," someone said at the top of the wall, looking out over the valley as he loaded. "They've got shields."

"Like those'll work against an Isen."

More rifle fire went out from the walls, the crackles building up to a surf-roar as the majority of the regiment went to work.

The trumpets stopped blowing _stand to_, and switched to another order. Ugbrag's hands froze with the day's third round up the spout, and picked a target.

The Easterling force was advancing on foot at a slow run, shields held out in front of them as if against arrow fire. There were five thousand if there was one, and more standing a little over a kilometre away - still mounted.

_They'll be to exploit a breakthrough,_ he realized.

"Company-"

"Platoon-"

"Volley fire, FIRE."

The seven companies up on the wall fired in unison, a _crash_ that hammered needles of pain into the ears. The rippling _braaap_ of the rapidguns sounded into the silence as the rifles reloaded.

"By companies, volley fire! And get some dispersion! Shoot the buggers with the ladders!"

Not as many Easterlings had gone down as might have been expected. _Must be from firing from the wall…_ Ugbrag thought, and made a mental note to aim a little lower than usual as he reloaded.

Easterlings changed off ladders in mid-run as he watched, keeping the crucial element of the escalade at full speed. Others began to slow, and fire arrows to try and sweep the battlements.

The longer arms of the Dale longbow made it harder to use in confined spaces, but as a consequence it could also have an even more powerful draw – and their allies were firing down, not up. The crashing of rifle volleys was joined by the spiteful buzz of arrows in both directions.

Someone cursed, as an arrow hit their shoulder chain mail and spanged off. Someone else toppled backwards soundlessly off the wall, an arrow in his eye. Still the volleys crashed out.

As the enemy reached two hundred metres, an order flashed down the line.

"Hollowpoint!"

Ugbrag fired the brass-tip he'd just loaded, and felt for hollowpoint in his bandolier. Clicking it home, he aimed through the gathering clouds of smoke and sighted in on someone in the front rank.

_BAM_.

For some reason, the soldier in question staggered but did not drop. Shrugging it off, Ugbrag loaded and fired again. This time he went down.

The rapidguns, unable to depress far enough, had switched their targets to the reinforcements waiting in open order out of volley fire range. A few went down, but they were so widely spaced that the weapons weren't able to hit more than a handful per ammunition plate.

A grapnel came flying up and latched onto the corner of a merlon. Ugbrag stared uncomprehendingly for a moment, then realized what it must be and snatched at his bayonet.

Next to him, another grapnel flew up. By wild chance, it caught one of his squad-mates by the back of the neck and tore at the uruk's flesh. He collapsed in a welter of blood, the severed jugular bleeding him out in seconds.

"Fix bayonets!"

Ugbrag ignored the order for a moment, sawing at the taut rope supporting an Easterling's climb up the face of the wall. It was about ten metres, so he had a few seconds-

The rope parted as a hand appeared, which tried to desperately grab for purchase on the wall, closed around the bayonet, and flinched open. The brief pull caused Ugbrag to lose _his_ grip on the bayonet, as well, and he cursed as it went flying out after the plummeting enemy.

Ladders were going up all along the wall. Cursing again, the soldier went for his shard-blade.

_So much for bayonet drill…_

The cast-iron blade wasn't much good for fencing, being much more brittle than forged iron or steel, but it also held a very sharp edge. As the first Easterling up the nearest ladder raised his sword, Ugbrag lunged and buried the metallic dagger up to the hilt in his armpit.

The soldier collapsed soundlessly into the town, and the second man up took a bullet in the face from a rifleman. The delay gave Ugbrag time to pick up his dropped rifle and shoot blind, straight down the line of the ladder. A scream sounded.

The platoon sergeant and another rifleman shouldered him aside unceremoniously, put the tips of their fixed bayonets against the ladder and pushed sideways. Despite the Easterlings at the base trying to hold it steady, it slid in a rush to the side.

Ugbrag realized that he was panting with effort. Pushing through it, he reloaded and fired blind, reloaded again – not daring to stick his head out to see his targets.

To one side, a series of yells sounded as Easterlings gained the wall near the corner. More volley fire came from that direction as the reserve company shot at the defenceless press, and yells became screams.

* * *

><p>Marek saw the Easterling pennants begin to wave over the north side of the east wall, and the firing of the left flank reserve punishing the lodgement. But there were a <em>lot<em> of Easterlings up there already, and two or three other places where the Eastern soldiers were managing to close to hand-to-hand.

Then a blue flag waved from the centre-left tower.

"Guns, now!" he snapped.

The field guns had been pushed into battery nearly to the other side of Uldonovan, to achieve the required height when halfway to their target. The gunners jerked ready lanyards, and sound _slapped_.

* * *

><p>Ugbrag heard the ripping wail of the shells, and tried to crawl into his boots. <em>Field guns?<em>

But the shots went flashing a couple of metres over the tower tops, catching the eye of friend and foe alike, and burst in unison over the Easterling cavalry riding to exploit the lodgement.

It would have been pointless to do, earlier. But they had _concentrated_ to get to the captured stretch of wall, and the shrapnel rounds slashed down hundreds of horses or riders.

That was enough. The Easterlings may have been battle hardened, may have even steeled themselves for being shot at in turn as they saw their comrades threshed by the rifles, but their _horses_ wanted no part of it and fled from the earsplitting noise. And as the explosions drew the eyes of the assault forces, they saw their relief turn and run, and they ran too. Many of them cast away their shields to run faster.

The ones who had achieved the wall fought with the desperation of the trapped, and mostly died. A few who thought quickly enough held up reversed scimitars and called for quarter, and mostly got it.

"Aule…" Ugbrag muttered, sinking down with his back to the wall, avoiding the corpse next to him. "That was close."

"They thought they could rush us." The sergeant agreed. "Not likely."

"No… what was wrong with our bloody rifles, though?"

* * *

><p>"That was <em>very<em> clever of them." Marek said that afternoon, as he inspected the ruin outside the walls – staying well under the cover of the riflemen posted there. "Or stupid, but it worked. Look."

He dismounted from Iles and kicked at a shield. There were two splashes of lead across the face, and three ragged holes. The Easterling it covered had two more splashes on his scale armour, and a bullet wound above his breastbone.

"I'd lay good odds the fatal shot was from a brass-tip round someone picked up by mistake. My oath, but that's irritating – even if they're close enough that the shot goes through the shield, it's been flattened by the impact."

"What does that mean?" the baron asked. He was on foot, not mounted, because his horse had flatly refused to go anywhere near the warg.

"Well, it means we'll have to stick to brass-tip rounds for almost the whole campaign – these damned metal-based shields can stop hollowpoint." Marek shook his head. "Ah well, there's one upside."

"Do tell." Uldonovan said. He'd picked up one of the shields himself, and was picking at the solidified lead with a small, functional dagger.

"We needed some spare lead to actually get making gunpowder here. Don't know if you ever noticed, but lead doesn't strike sparks." Marek was stretching the bounds of his remit here, but it wasn't past it yet – and he had a lot of respect for the baron of Uldonovan, after seeing the man manage thousands of refugees. "So we need some to use to grind the wet powder down."

"I see." The baron tried to disguise his interest, but wasn't very successful. "That would be very useful."

"I was meaning to speak to you about that, actually. Have you found any headway in getting hold of any sulphur?" It wasn't exactly likely they had _much_, but he'd rather rely on native sources rather than have to dismantle ammunition.

"Some of the local apothecaries have a little. Not much at all… but I remembered that it's also used in bleaching, and there was more available there. Counting all the supplies in town, I'd say we have a hundred pounds or so." Uldonovan shrugged. "If we knew it was important, we'd have more – there's good deposits up near the Lonely Mountain…"

"That might be enough." Marek counted. "Two to three to fifteen. You might get half a tonne of gunpowder from that, if it's nice and pure and ground well – which should be easily enough for a few nasty surprises. How's the charcoal?"

The baron looked more cheerful. "_That_, we have a lot of. Saltpetre too – this town's a cattle market in spring, and your logistics people say they've found some good patches. Stinks to high heaven, though."

"Not surprised." The uruk chuckled, then sobered. "Food supplies?"

"_That_ is easy." Uldonovan gave a wry smile. "Unlike some frontier towns, I do my duty. Uldonovan has a year of grain stored, which acts as remittance for taxes. They won't starve _us_ out easily."

"Which leaves only an assault of some kind." Marek countered. "How are their siege weapons?"

"Last time, they used mangonels and catapults – no trebuchet, though. That might have changed," Uldonovan said apologetically, "since we've done nothing more than raids for decades."

"Yes, I see." Marek said. "Oh well, if they do try for war machines I'll just wait until they're half built and then drop a regimental stonk on them. Should convince them of the value of not trying that any day."

Uldonovan frowned, considering. "Actually… it might well make more sense for you not to do that. Keeping this army pinned is all well and good, but your scouts have mentioned that other army moving up the river. Slow, but inexorable."

"Indeed." Marek nodded.

"Well, my armsmen are trained as cavalry. If you can somehow draw the Easterlings into an all out attack – even if you have to sacrifice one wall of my fortifications to do it – then we can rip them to shreds in the breach and break them, I can pursue them, and you can march north."

Marek blinked, impressed by the boldness of the plan. "That _might_ work… but you'd be leaving the town itself terribly vulnerable."

"My duty to the crown is my highest priority." Uldonovan said, calmly. "And I'd die with my town before seeing it fall."

* * *

><p>"It seems a lot of effort to go to…" Éomer muttered, through lips white with the strain, "to kill me healthy."<p>

Saruman shook his head. "Oh, we're not going to kill you, Éomer, son of Éomund," he assured. "That would serve no useful purpose, though it might be only right after your rash actions. No, you have a different fate."

The First Marshal of the Mark looked up quizzically. There was a member of the medical services checking on his healing arm, but neither man nor wizard paid him much attention. "Why? I would have thought-" he choked off the words.

"Once you are fully healed, or well enough to travel," Saruman corrected himself, "I and a detachment of cavalry will return you to your liege and uncle, Theoden. It will fall to him to determine if you deserve any further punishment." The smile Saruman gave then was genuine enough, but somehow cold. "I imagine he will not take the loss of fifteen percent of the muster of the Rohirrim lightly."

"_Fifteen?_" Éomer said, paling. That was over half the entire force he'd had with him! Oh, he knew they were taking heavy casualties, but… even what _looked_ like a massacre usually had most of the soldiers survive. Unless they were pursued by cavalry – which was the speciality of Rohan, of course. If the armies of Isengard could match them there…

"That _is_ counting the ones captured at the Mithburg," Saruman clarified. "They're being put to work expanding a rail road across Enmett."

The White Wizard waved his hand. "But no matter. I thought you should know that, in addition to the captured soldiers, around a third of those casualties from your attack were saved in time by medical staff. They're wounded, some of them crippled, but not dead."

Eomer exhaled. "Cold comfort." It came out harsher than he'd meant it, and he made as if to take back his words – then pulled at a torn muscle, and sank back gasping. A sheen of sweat popped on his brow.

Saruman spoke to the orderly. "Inform me when he can ride."

"By your will."

* * *

><p><em>Central?<em>

**Analysis indicates contrition of subject Eomer is genuine, probability 82% +/- 4%. Further analysis would suggest probability of short-term actions to attempt to attain revenge less than 4%. Long term-**

Saruman cut the other off. _Long term is for later. Let us last out the year. The status of the army?_

**Two regiments dragoons, one regiment cavalry fully incorporated. Depending on time of main assault by Mordor forces, possibility exists of additional one infantry unit being available to travel by train in support.**

_What of weaponry?_

**Timeline for introduction of next generation of weapons too long for use in first engagements of War of the Ring.**

**Observe.**

This time, the vision was of a rifle very much like the Isen. The only difference was the breech mechanism.

**Lee-Metford.**

It came apart, and labels marked each component. A large fraction of them pulsed green.

**Currently in production, or requiring only minor modification.**

The main differences were then highlighted. A metal spring, which would be manageable with a special run of steel in one of the blower furnaces. A box holding ten rounds, which were fed into the breech chamber one at a time as the lever was worked. And a modified form of lever, which did not move a block but instead a sliding bolt.

**Bolt action. This version inferior to model produced shortly after, but uses current ammunition. Minimal disruption to production line.**

Something else appeared – a kind of metal bracket, holding five 11mm rounds.

**Stripper clip.**

The rifle reassembled, and a figure picked it up. There was still a bandolier with 11mm loose rounds, but in addition a number of the stripper clips in a pocket.

**Observe.**

The figure began firing, working the bolt ten times in succession before reloading by thumbing in two stripper clips and returning to the mechanical firing. It took it less than a minute to fire twenty rounds, twice the rate of the Isen – and because working the bolt took much less time than the lever action of the less sophisticated weapon, there was clearly more time to aim.

**The record set by Alfred Snoxall with the Lee-Enfield, a modification of the Lee-Metford for smokeless powder, was 38 hits in one minute at 200 yards range.**

Saruman blinked. That was indeed ridiculously fast. It sounded unreal, somehow, not quite possible. The firing of a rapidgun or a rifle was astonishing enough, but a bow could be fired ten times a minute. But nearly _forty?_

**Alteration of existing production lines would be most efficiently achieved as follows.**

* * *

><p>"Thank you." Lurtz said, and the crow took flight again.<p>

He turned to the warriors of the fellowship. "Aragorn, there is bad news."

"Go on." Aragorn replied, eyes alert as he looked up. Legolas and Gimli didn't look up, but they were clearly paying attention.

"The column of orcs headed for Cair Andros is moving faster than we expected – they split, and the forward half abandoned their logistics train and is headed straight for the city." Lurtz got out his map, and pointed. "Their camp was about there. They're ravaging the land and living off it, which is how they're going so fast. Call it thirty miles a day."

Legolas couldn't quite contain a snicker.

"I know." Lurtz grinned. "Not much by the standards of elves… even Isengard foot troops can hit about forty-five a day when living off the land. But it's still bad news, because they're closer than we are. I suspect they're going to bypass the town Henneth Annun, leave that for the larger army, and try to invest Cair Andros. Maybe even take it by coup de main."

Unlikely to work, admittedly – but depending on the nature of the force sent, it might even be possible for them to pass themselves off as troops from Henneth Annun itself. Even if that failed or was never attempted, interdicting the fortress would hamper the defence of the whole of the northern half of Ithilien.

Aragorn had reached the same conclusion, memory of the Black Numenoreans simmering at the back of his mind. He checked the distances on the map. "They will get there in two days. And we're a hundred miles away."

Lurtz tapped the map-case idly on the ground. "We can't leave the hobbits unprotected."

"No." Legolas said, nodding. "Never."

"It'd be a foolish thing to do," the uruk added. "And if we go… not much chance of success, we'd tire out the wargs, and they might even think _we're_ the attack force."

After another moment, he struck the ground. "Damn it! Torren, your second platoon is staying here to keep the hobbits safe. Liase with Gimli and… Legolas?" The elf nodded. "Right. I'm off to Cair Andros with Aragorn. First and third platoons, make ready to move out!"

Lurtz turned to Aragorn as the camp exploded into activity. "You're going to _have_ to ride a warg now, if you want to keep up."

"I know." Aragorn nodded.

"Right. We'd better get you introduced to one of the spares. Fenca!" The big animal looked over, ears perked. "Go find Dules, girl."

Fenca sniffed, looking around, then loped over to another warg. The two 'conversed' for a moment in expressions and little noises, and then walked over side-by-side to Lurtz and Aragorn.

Aragorn looked dubious. Lurtz clapped him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. Fighting from warg-back is different, but she's just going to be coming along with the rest of us so you just need to hold on. Colour Sergeant, help him get settled, would you?" The uruk commander turned to Torren. "Lieutenant, make for Cair Andros with all speed the Fellowship can manage. We'll try to make sure the city's ready for you."

"Understood." The human twitched, holding back a salute.

Lurtz nodded with a grin. "Good, you remembered." Salutes in the field were a bad idea, since they marked you out for snipers. It was, admittedly, far too soon for the forces of Mordor to have reliable rifles – hell, they probably didn't have the captured weapons TO Mordor yet – but getting into the habit was important.

"How's he shaping, Sergeant?"

Glod waved a hand back and forth. "I wouldn't rely on him to dismount fast, but he might stay on."

"Good enough." Lurtz scanned across the camp. Everyone had their webbing and armour on… some spare kit left lying around, but that was probably Second Platoon's… right, no point putting it off any further. "Move out!"

* * *

><p>"And… <em>slack<em> off."

Four captured Rohirrim collapsed, gasping, as the six orcs who'd been pulling with them laughed and the rest of the work party secured the water storage tanks in place.

An uruk with a sheaf of notes looked through them. "Right, that's station fourteen… total distance, one hundred-eighty kilometres. A little less than a quarter of the way."

One of the ex-Rohirrim spat on the floor, then pushed himself back up. "_How_ far is this bloody thing going?"

"Eight hundred kilometres to Gondor." The supervisor replied promptly. "One station every twelve kilometres on average. You should be glad – at least you're not one of the parties doing the cutting – _that_ is dangerous work. Still, they're a long way ahead of us yet. We're moving a bit slower than we could be."

_"Slower?"_ That got a response from all four humans.

"Well, our limiting factor is still getting the gravel in. Once the line is in partial operation, we'll be moving at about the same speed as an army – thirty kilometres a day." The supervisor contemplated the all-metal track, two upright rails about eighty centimetres apart with metal cross-slats.

It ran past the station and on for another few miles, where a larger work party could just be seen laying gravel and unloading metal track segments from a flat-bedded wagon resting on the lines themselves In the other direction, there was a moving speck that was another truck of materials coming up drawn by warg and ox. He knew what was going on out of sight, and could visualize it.

Some miles ahead, there was a huge group of workers – thousands, mainly common orcs with a mix of dwarves, uruks and humans skewed towards the supervisory positions – cutting through hills and building embankments and bridges. They were slicing through the landscape, accepting shallow bends where necessary but mainly just ignoring topography beyond it being a challenge, and the sheer size of the workforce let them go at a fantastic rate.

The level ground they were building was a path about ten feet wide at the narrowest, with steep cuttings through hills to maintain that width and elevation. Areas of level ground between eight and sixteen kilometres from the last one were marked for use as stations, and any hummocks in the area left as appropriate as platform foundation. Each station also had a second path cut where necessary, for a siding.

Then there were the vedettes of Scout cavalry positioned to intercept any potential raiding force spotted by the crows, and their counterparts setting up semaphore posts to relay along the line of the rail path. Some of them were hunting, too, which made supply a little easier.

At the leading edge of the line itself, there was a bed of gravel being placed to a depth of a few inches. That took the weight of the metal rails that went on next, each prefabricated segment being lowered into place from their wagon and then used to move the cart forwards. Empty wagons got put aside for now, to be consolidated at the stations later.

Further back, there were animal-drawn supply trucks and carriages leading all the way back to Isengard. The line itself made pulling heavy weights much more practicable for animal hitches – it could support more weight than the road, for one thing – though they still moved agonizingly slowly and put a lot of strain on the animals. Currently each hitch was only used to move a given load from one station to the next one along… but it still meant that the supplies were taking not much more than two or three days to get here. That was a _huge_ improvement.

"And this is just the pioneer line. I'm sure you gentlemen will enjoy working with us on the _big_ line."

After a moment, the cavalryman who'd spoken decided to try his luck again. "What… what's the big line going to be like?"

"Oh… about twice as wide. A hundred sixty centimetres. Wood, not metal, for the sleepers. And there'll be four of them abreast."

Seeing their astonishment, he grinned tightly. "Impressive, isn't it? Now, come on. You lot have had enough rest, and we need to get that coal bunker in place."

There was a chorus of groans, but the men of Rohan seemed to take a kind of guilty pride in being involved with such a preposterous work of engineering, albeit not by choice. They were even starting to warm to the orcs in the work-force, because the orcs were _certainly_ pulling their weight.

* * *

><p>"And… done!" Gilli said, tightening another bolt just like hundreds he'd done that day. The last one, seconds ahead of the three other teams working in the large shed.<p>

Several grease-stained men, uruks and dwarves cheered, slapped one another and him on the back, and small amounts of money changed hands.

"Alright, lads, ten minutes to look at what you've made, then we need to get them wheeled out and get you back to work," came a voice. "And this time it's production-line! You've all got the hang of it now!"

Ternak, head of logistics and one of the First Ten, shook the hand of the dwarf. "Nice work. She looks solid."

"Aye." Gilli muttered, falling back into the dialect of his youth as he gazed on what he'd helped build. "She does, at that."

The huge piece of equipment was something that had never existed on Middle-Earth before. Twenty metres of steel and iron locomotive, built with four leading wheels, six driving wheels almost as tall as Ternak himself and an eight wheel coal tender on the back. The wheels were spaced eighty centimetres apart, to fit the slender track of the pioneer line it would run on, and it would hold steam at almost unthinkable pressure – and turn the fire and water into movement.

_He'd_ done that. _He_, Gilli, son of Gordel, formerly of Moria. And he could probably do it again if he had to.

Luckily, though, he didn't have to do it _all_ again. His responsibilities were quite clearly laid out.

A team of drivers came in through the open door of the shed, a hitch of over a dozen wargs ready to pull the locomotive to the water tower and get it coaled up.

"Sad to see her go, really…" Ternak mused. "First one, and all. But then, I half want to run the thing _myself._"

"Aye, that's the downside of it." Gilli replied.

"Well, better crack on." Ternak nodded to the dwarf. "We'll try to get your shed clear as soon as we can, foreman!"

The foreman – another dwarf – laughed. "You'll be a while!"

It was true. The machine weighed almost seventy tons, and were it not on the tracks already it would have been a nightmare to move. The half-ton wargs would be able to move it, but barely.

* * *

><p>"Okay, here goes." Lukz muttered, looking over the dials. "Everything looks good."<p>

"Does to me too." His co-driver replied. "Points?"

"We've got the go-ahead." Lukz confirmed. "Lord, don't let me fuck this up… stoke!"

The two on-job stokers got to shovelling coal, flicking it into the firebox with practised flips of their wrists to place it just where it needed to go. They'd all been drilled on a mock-up, but this was the first time doing the real thing.

Slowly the steam pressure rose, and smoke lofted skywards in a cloud from the chimney as it drew air over the firebox. Five minutes in, Lukz judged it satisfactory and worked the lever.

"In reverse gear!"

"In reverse," the second confirmed, double-checking his motions.

"Putting in drive power."

With a _chuff_, the locomotive jerked into motion and began to ease backwards. Lukz kept the throttle low, because he wasn't going to go far the first time – just to the sixteen cargo carriages which had been ready for days.

"You're on track," the co driver said, again for confirmation. "Good, the points were right…"

_And isn't that obvious_. Lukz didn't say it, though – both of them were thinking the same thing, after all.

Docking with the set of rolling-stock was a little hairy, but nothing too bad – they weren't used to the brakes, and applied them far too early. It wasn't long before the whole assemblage was hooked up properly.

Four gravel trucks, six trucks of pioneer rails, three of coal, two of engine-suitable water and one of food. A fairly heavy load, but all needed to build the pioneer line further.

This time, the locomotive went into forward gear, and the throttle was higher. It jerked forward until the linking chain went taunt, then slowed with another teeth-rattling jerk. The first car was tugged forward by the pull, and coasted until it pulled on the _second_.

The resultant series of juddering bumps all down the train ended with the rearmost carriage moving at a little less than walking pace, and the locomotive pulled again. It took six or seven of them before everything was going at a steady pace, twenty miles per hour, and steaming south out of the Vale of Isengard.

A shrill whistle knifed through the air as Lukz passed the gates.

* * *

><p>Shadowfax's hooves thundered on the road, then diminished to a series of light thuds as the Maeras dropped down into a canter and then a trot. The two wargs being ridden by the humans came alongside, both too tired from the long hard run to do more than pant.<p>

"Fireless dark," Graz said, nearly as exhausted as his mount. "What do you _feed_ that horse?"

"Grass." Gandalf replied, a light note in his voice. Then he sobered a little. "I know I drove you hard. But the city of Minas Tirith needs as much preparation as we can get it."

Boromir slid off the back of Myrna, trembling slightly. She whined, and he absently stroked her back. "That's the hardest ride I've ever had in my life!"

Gandalf swept his hand towards the fort a half-mile or so away. "If you would, Captain of Gondor, we need to get through the great wall of Rammas Echor. I assume your rank is enough to have the gates opened?"

"It better be…" Boromir muttered. "And I don't think much of this garrison, either. Sloppy. By now they should have at least ordered the men to stand to."

Graz took Myrna's reins as Boromir strode forward, adjusting his surcoat to show the white-tree blazon as clearly as possible. Once he was within a hundred metres or so – still with no sign of movement – he shouted up. "Hello the fort! What do you call this, then?"

There was the sound of a curse, then the clattering of armour being put on in a tearing hurry. It took about another minute or so before a face appeared at the battlements.

"Uh, who goes – oh, _shit!"_ The face beneath the helmet went stark white, and the next words were spoken at a shout. "Captain Boromir, uh, my lord. We weren't expecting you."

"Don't think I haven't noticed that you're buying your fellow guards time to get dressed, man!" Boromir barked. "Now open the bloody gate!"

* * *

><p>It was another long minute before the gate of Rammas Echor was laboriously opened, from the winch-houses on the third floor. That it was closed was, at least, a good sign – though the guards probably wouldn't have dared sleep if the gate was open, lull in the long war or no.<p>

Boromir strode through, his temper still up, and climbed the steps to the guard house. From their position below, Graz and Gandalf could not tell precisely what was being said.

There was a lot of shouting, though.

Eventually, the Captain of Gondor came back down from the gates, somewhat mollified. "Right. They won't be this lax again for a while… I need to discuss this with father, though. If things have slipped this much…"

"We'd better keep going." Graz said regretfully. "Might be a good idea to walk for an hour or so, though, to rest the wargs a bit."

"The road is certainly more amenable to walking." Gandalf commented. "The farmlands of Pelennor are excellent. I must admit I was in too much of a hurry last time I came through to properly appreciate them…"

"They've always been the first place infrastructure funding goes." Boromir agreed.

* * *

><p>Pelennor was an astonishing area of intensive cultivation. While the large central portion – mainly pasture – was flat and grassy, there were also huge swaths of land given over to grains, root vegetables, orchards…<p>

Of course, as it was only late February, most of them were only just planted, and the blossoms on the trees were starting to bloom.

Myrna whuffled and sneezed, shaking her head. Some of the peasants in nearby fields flinched, and she gave them a look before continuing.

"I believe we may have confused them." Gandalf commented. "It is not often that a warg is seen wearing saddle and bridle."

Boromir nodded absently. "They're probably glad of the break in routine, though."

Graz had been analyzing the city absently. "Hmmm. That would be one _hell_ of a target to fight up, if the defenders had guns and the attackers didn't." Then he eyed the walls. "But – are those curtain walls?"

"Yes." Boromir nodded. "The lowest set of walls is made of the same stone as Isengard."

"Oh, okay. Right, those are basically invulnerable as I understand it, at least to field guns." Graz shrugged. "About all I know about artillery is that curtain walls are vulnerable to racking stresses. But the gate is still going to be the weak point."

"Indeed. I wonder – how would your _guns_ be best used in defence of Minas Tirith?"

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing." Graz said. "You're fishing for details, aren't you?" Then the lieutenant grinned. "Fair enough. Okay, here's how I _think_ it'd be best to do it. First off, cannon scattered across all the levels, to fire on siege towers. Escalade is one of your big worries. Then, you loophole the walls to either side of the gate, and have lots of riflemen and some of the quick-firing weapons we've been told about to rake whoever gets up to the gate in a crossfire…"

* * *

><p>After another forty minutes or so, the wargs had recovered enough to lope to the city.<p>

Minas Tirith was a marvel – a thousand feet high, it was big enough to hold perhaps a quarter of a million citizens comfortably. The great stone of the embrasure hovered over it like a guard, and the tower of Mindolluin flew the flag of the white tree at the tallest spire.

Despite that, there was an undeniable sense of unease over the city. Many buildings lay dilapidated and empty, and Graz estimated that there could be no more than a hundred and twenty thousand people in the city itself.

The thought was sobering. The great hammer soon to fall upon Gondor had more orcs in it than the entire population of the city that was its ultimate target.

Boromir led them up through the city, following the one switchbacked path up the seven layers of Minas Tirith. At his advice, the trio travelled on foot, leading their grateful mounts and setting the minds of the populace a little more at ease.

It was plain to see that Boromir was well liked. The people who saw him often had expressions of palpable relief, and once or twice a captain tried to discuss something with him – the heir of the steward had to beg off, citing his pressing business, but promised to seek them out to handle the issue later.

After a punishing climb, they finally reached the citadel itself. Guards in the ornate but entirely functional armour their post demanded saluted once, then returned to their implacable stance.

"Hold on a moment." Graz said, raising a hand. "I'll take Myrna and Gurnyca and get them stabled somewhere."

Boromir nodded. "I need to speak to my father, first – Gandalf, do you know where the stables are?"

"I do." Gandalf nodded gravely. "I believe the last time I made use of the citadel stables was two years ago… or possibly I stayed on the sixth level then. No, the last time was when Ecthelion II was Steward."

The Captain blinked.

"Oh, sorry." Gandalf sighed. "I _do_ tend to get a bit lost in the past at times. Don't worry about it. I'm sure your father is eager to see you."

* * *

><p>"Boromir!" Denethor said, grinning. "And until I heard from the gate-house I wasn't expecting you back for another month – what <em>have<em> you been up to?"

Boromir embraced his father. "You sly old cheat. I was hoping to surprise you."

"Not my doing, Boromir." Denethor shook his head, returning the embrace. "They do all they can for a frail old man like me, no matter what I tell them."

The son shrugged. "Most people would consider you very limber for eighty-nine."

"And others would not." The Steward sat back down. "So, how did your little trip go?"

Boromir stood erect, all business now. "I lost Warcloud at Tharbad – there is no crossing there any more, and I had to swim the river when he foundered."

"Shame." Denethor noted; Warcloud had been a fine stallion. "So you walked the rest of the way?"

"I did. I finally arrived in Rivendell on the twenty-fifth of October, as the council began. There was much news: the Nazgul are abroad once more; Saruman of Isengard has established his own army in opposition to Mordor; the Dwarves have been approached with the offer of one or more of their Rings being returned in return for news of the One Ring; and," Boromir paused, gauging how his father was taking the information. Even the news of Isengard had not lightened his disposition much.

Well, there was nothing for it, "And the One Ring has been found."

Denethor jerked with shock. "Isildur's Bane exists still?"

"It does." Boromir nodded. "Many of the Wise counselled that it should be destroyed. I concur."

"You do?" Denethor asked. "I admit it is a foul thing, but Gondor is troubled from all sides. If it were available, then we might be able to make good use of it."

"Better it were destroyed." Boromir replied, firmly. "Our troubles come from Sauron – if the ring is destroyed, so is he, and so is the coordination of his armies. The greatest drain on our strength is gone."

"Well, if it can be destroyed, why has it not already been done?" Denethor asked, fists clenching and unclenching.

"That is the problem," Boromir admitted. "It can only be destroyed by being cast into Mount Doom."

Denethor slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. "Boromir! You are my son, but you are also Captain of the White Tower and a general in my armies. This is no place for preposterous plans! If we had the strength to fight clear to Mount Doom, our troubles would already be over!"

"I know." Boromir said. "And we cannot… alone. I mentioned Saruman's new army. They are armed with weapons the like of which have never been seen on Middle-Earth before."

"What weapons?" Denethor asked, still simmering with the rage of a man not wanting to face his own black depression.

Boromir drew out his gifted revolver from within his armour. "This is one that I was given by Lurtz of Isengard, who currently commands a scout company but is marked for regimental command within the army in question. He assisted our journey southwards."

"Our?" Denethor queried, examining the weapon. At first glance, it looked ridiculous – there was no blade, nor was it well weighted for a mace. On second-

Yes, there was something unusual about it. Predatory. And quite functional.

"I and eight others, led by Gandalf the Grey, headed south and east to attempt to take the Ring to Mordor to destroy." Boromir looked up, meeting the eyes of his father. "Also in the party was Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Isildur's Heir… and holder of a commission of equal rank to my own, in the army of Gondor."

"Isildur's heir?" Denethor shook his head, and went back to examining the revolver. "Nonsense. I would never give a member of such a ragged house of pretenders any rank."

"I did not say _you_ gave him the position. He attained the rank of captain-general under grandfather, Ecthelion II, under the name of Thorongil." Boromir said, watching as his father scowled. "And, for well or ill, the line of kings descended from Anárion has died out. He _is_ the legal heir."

"Words, and no more." Denethor said, shaking his head again. "Gondor is too troubled to listen to them."

"It is precisely _because_ Gondor is troubled that we _should_ listen to them." Boromir pressed. "I have with me a soldier from that army, who can demonstrate the weapons in question far better than I can. And I have seen them in action – if you have ever trusted my judgement, trust it in this."

After a long moment of silence, the Steward gave a short nod. "Very well."

* * *

><p>"Right." Graz said, trying not to remember that there was a man who was effectively a king in all but name standing nearby. Instead, he focused on the dummy dressed in half-plate armour and set three hundred metres away, in one of the archery ranges set half into Mount Mindolluin.<p>

At this range, a good archer could score a hit on a stationary man if he had his leisure to aim, but doing damage through even leather armour would be hard.

For the Isen, on the other hand…

Boromir turned over an hour-glass. "Go!"

Graz worked the lever, opening the breech of his Isen. A round went down the grooved ramp on the front of the breech-bock, then he snapped the breech closed again. Aim, fire.

_Bang_.

_Bit low_, he thought, seeing the abdomen area of the armour erupt inwards. That would have been a kill-shot, but so would the whole torso area. Best aim up slightly.

While he thought that, his hands moved without conscious direction. Work the lever, but not too hard so it didn't have a chance of tearing the brass as it extracted the spent cartridge. Another round from the bandolier, and three more to go between his fingers with the bases ready to hand, to speed up the next few reloads slightly. Snap in the next round, back up to eye level, aim for the head this time to account for bullet drop.

_Bang_.

This time, the bullet hit just to the right of where the breastbone would be. Just about perfect.

Extract cartridge. Insert new round. Aim.

_Bang._

* * *

><p>"And halt!" Boromir called.<p>

Graz worked the extractor, catching the live round he'd been about to fire. After replacing it in his bandolier, he put the rifle down carefully and gave his fingers a rub. Firing precisely, rapidly and without jamming the rifle was something he was _very_ good at, he knew – especially the precision side of it – but it was still punishing. Especially to his right shoulder, which had been taking the recoil.

Then he looked at the results of his labour. Eleven shots in a minute, and he'd been about to fire when Boromir called for him to stop – which meant it really _was_ eleven, not ten and a bit.

Not too bad, really. Especially as one of the bullets had hit in the abdomen, nine in a tight grouping in the torso – and one had taken the helmet off the stand, sending it clattering to the floor and badly deformed.

The Recon lieutenant felt quite pleased to spot that Denethor was gaping. Gandalf, a little more used to the sound and smoke of gunpowder weapons, was waving his hand in front of his face and coughing slightly.

"Admittedly I'm one of the better shots," Graz said, "but the Isen rifle is man-killing accurate at six hundred metres – six hundred sixty yards. And against troops in close order, it can hit the formation at over half a mile."

"That's the rifle." Boromir nodded. "What about the revolver?" He slipped Graz a bit of a wink. It seemed he was enjoying this chance to startle his father.

"Okay, then…" the officer clipped bullets into a speedloader. Just one; that would be enough for the demonstration.

"A revolver is much more of a close range weapon – melee or javelin range, more or less. It's harder to aim, and the shorter barrel means the bullet isn't going as fast. But…" he took a stance, and aimed for the second (and much closer) suit of armour sacrificed for the demonstration.

First finger along the line of the barrel, second one on the trigger. Point-

_Bang._ The revolver kicked, and he let the weight pull it down again. _Bang._ The second shot didn't push it quite so high, as it was already moving down. His forearm began to ache, but that didn't matter. _Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang._

Flipping the cylinder out, he shook out the spent brass and reloaded with the speedloader. Flipped the cylinder closed again – not strictly for the best, but it saved a half second or so – and fired once.

"It's very, very fast." The words probably weren't needed – the whole reload had taken only two or three seconds.

Denethor still looked stunned.

"I'm not aware of the plans Lord Saruman has," Graz admitted, "but from what my commander said, I think he's planning on giving Gondor the capability to make their own gunpowder weaponry. I don't know to what extent; that'll have to be sorted out by someone with actual ambassadorial powers."

Crouching down, Graz started policing up his spent brass. It was a good habit to have, after all.

* * *

><p>The lieutenant in charge of the third watch on Cair Andros' western gate frowned nervously.<p>

He wasn't sure exactly _what_ to do in this situation. There were eighty or so figures, all mounted, crossing the fords in the dying light. It _could_ be a raid… but then, the gates had been closed an hour ago. There would be no point.

It could be a party from Minas Tirith, or even from Rohan… but those didn't look like horses.

"Hello the gate!" came a strong-voiced shout.

"Who goes there!" he called back automatically.

"Party to speak to the garrison commander!"

The lieutenant weighed the situation. The Lord of Cair Andros likely wasn't abed yet, but it was late in the day and chill. He might take it out on a mere lieutenant if he was displeased by being dragged away from his few hours of free time.

On the other hand, what else could he do?

"Meridon," he called over a corporal. "Message to the commander's headquarters, verbal only. Situation at the west gate."

"Message for his Lordship, situation at the west gate, sir." Meridon replied, and at the nod he hurried off.

* * *

><p>"Alright, what's this about?" the lord asked, frowning. He'd been worried about the deteriorating situation in Ithilien, and had occasionally entertained thoughts of fleeing if things got too bad.<p>

He'd quashed them, of course, but trouble at the _west_ gate – the only line of retreat he could have – was extremely worrying nevertheless.

"Sir. Party of mixed men, dwarves, and… something else. Not sure what." The lieutenant answered. "They turned up riding what looked like wargs, and one of them wants to speak to you."

"Alright. Let him in – but only him." Cair Andros said. "And someone get me some Rangers!"

* * *

><p>Several soldiers stood ready with their swords, and a dozen Ithilien Rangers had their bows ready to fire if more than one man came through the postern gate as it was unlocked and opened.<p>

When they saw the figure who came through, some of the oldest soldiers – veterans of the time of Ecthelion – slacked off their bows or put up their swords, with a kind of numb surprise.

"Why are you doing that?" Cair Andros asked, a note of fear in his voice.

"'tis Thorongil, sir!" a regular soldier said. "I fought with him when we raided Umbar, back when I was a new recruit. He don't look like he's aged more than five years."

The figure nodded. "I remember you. Barahir of Edhellond?"

"Yis!" the grizzled old veteran said, incredibly pleased.

"I hope you still remember to clean your sword after you've used it." Barahir's expression turned mortified – he'd all but forgotten that the commander of that expedition remembered him _because_ he'd not cleaned his sword after one skirmish and it had become badly rusty.

Thorongil turned to the lord. "Greetings, Lord Cair Andros. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I'd explain more fully, but there's a large army headed for your eastern wall and it will be here shortly. There are more pressing matters at hand."

"…Isildur's heir." It was difficult to pinpoint where the first voice came from, but the whispers grew rapidly.

"Do you have proof that you are who you say you are?" Cair Andros asked. "And I'll not agree to your using my seat as a base for civil war."

"Never that." Aragorn assured him, and unbuckled his scabbard. Taking the hilt of his sword in one hand and the scabbard itself in another, he drew steel. "This is Anduril, the Flame of the West, reforged from the shards of Narsil. You know that any who is not Isildur's Heir would die upon drawing it, for it is the blade of the house of Elendil."

Cair Andros examined the blade closely. "…yes, it can only be Narsil reforged. No normal blade has that colour, nor could it be so long and so sharp without being made of ripple-steel unless it truly were what you say it is."

Aragorn resheathed the sword, and chopped off the growing murmurs with a gesture. "My people, I am heartened. But what matters now is the safety of Cair Andros."

"Yes, of course." The lord pointed to his soldiers. "Get the gate open to let the rest of his company through."

Realizing how important impressions were, Lurtz had had his men dismount and form up in column of twos with wargs inside the column. They marched in with finicky dressing, following Aragorn and Cair Andros towards the barracks area of the city. The clear organization and discipline, that Aragorn had vouched for them, and the fact that they were _reinforcements_ to an undermanned walled city meant that even the uruks didn't cause too much comment.

* * *

><p>"Alright." Aragorn said, spreading out the maps. "We have eight hundred regular foot, most of them trained with both sword and bow. A hundred of the Rangers of Ithilien. A hundred mounted, who are also trained for dismounted action – they'd best be our reserve."<p>

"I agree." Lurtz tapped the western approaches to the city. "There's also, once Torren gets here with his platoon, a total of one hundred-eighteen rifles – dragoons, like the Gondorian mounted. We're probably best for short range fire – at that kind of distance, a rifle volley will be devastating. There's also a dozen werewolves with Torren."

"Werewolves? Did I hear that aright?" Cair Andros asked.

"Yep." Lurtz grinned. "They're very, very dangerous in a pursuit or in tight quarters. Don't worry – they're no risk to allies."

"It might be best to put them as another part of the reserve, then." Aragorn muttered. "Countercharge whoever gets over the walls or through the gate. What about…"

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

This particular chapter was kind of fun. Tricky - especially Boromir interacting with his father when they started to disagree - but fun.

And yes, this uses the _book_ version of where Anduril is...

"Ripple-steel" is Damascene patterned steel, by the way.


	8. Chapter 8

"Well, here they come," Lurtz said, pointing. "Look at that! Must have been planning it for months."

Aragorn nodded. The fifty or so human cavalry approaching from the direction of Henneth Annun looked _very_ convincing. Half of them were a well dressed core, with Gondorian company pennant and surcoats clearly displayed – and a few of their spears were visibly damaged, too.

The other half…

Well, if the twenty-five in the front were supposed to be the remnant of a reasonably intact cavary company, then the twenty-five others were the dribs and drabs of whatever else could have got hold of a horse and escaped the town – some militia, with spears designed for infantry work and on nags; men in the armour and a few with the shield of foot regulars, and two or three with the cloaks of rangers and… Lurtz checked with his telescope. Yes, empty quivers. A nice touch.

"Careful," he murmured to Aragorn. "I'm sure you know this already, but don't be taken in by how scrappy they look. These will be the elites."

Crow reconnisance had confirmed that these were part of the Mordor force which had split off, though, not real fugutives. In fact, the town of Henneth near the refuge itself was still holding out – though, sadly, it was ultimately doomed. There were just too many orcs in the force around the walls – three thousand at least.

And that same three thousand would be tied up for weeks until they managed to storm the town. One of the few ways to take a walled town or city quickly was to have an open gate – either send men over the walls to open one for you, in an escalade, or somehow get inside by trickery or treachery. The men who captured the gate wouldn't even have to hold it very long in most places, like here – it was a half-mile to the nearest trees, but at a gallop that would be less than a minute. And when troops started pouring into a city through an open gate…

That was usually the end of it, though if there was a central fortress the attackers had to take that as well. It was one reason Minas Tirith had seven layers, in fact, since an enemy faced the daunting prospect of seven successive assaults.

"Oh, I know." Aragorn shook his head. "I've been doing this longer than you've been alive. Your men ready?"

Lurtz nodded in reply. He had about thirty riflemen in the two buildings nearest the east gate, with a good view of the postern. And there were ten more in each of the two gate towers, and another ten at the murder holes.

Lurtz then looked at the king-in-waiting. "You realize that 'longer than you've been alive' doesn't actually mean much, with us?"

"Fair point."

* * *

><p>"All right, lads, you know what's up," Fuinur said, glancing back at his troop as they splashed through the ford. "We trick our way in, we hold the gate for the rest of the host, the city's ours."<p>

Nods, but no verbal responses. As it should be; they were still too far for someone on the walls to hear a single quiet voice, but fifty at once would be much easier to hear.

He spent a moment lingering on the disguises of his men, being sure that it was as good as they could manage. Gondorian armour was difficult, but not impossible, to get hold of…

Gondor. A nation of weaklings. He scowled up at the white-tree pennant flapping from his spear. If they would only just go ahead and collapse, already, then the true power of Númenór would be once more restored.

Then he raised his head to see the matching pennants over the gatehouse. _Not long now…_

* * *

><p>As Fuinur got to the gate, he reined up his horse – a rare brown, rather than the blacks preferred by the Númenóreans-in-exile, to keep the usurpers from being suspicious. His first platoon slowed with good but not perfect dressing, as they should, and the second slowed up in shambolic chaos.<p>

_Try to come to the right conclusion from that._

He caught the eye of Ancalimon, one of the brigade's three mages seconded to him for the assault. The mage nodded back – clearly ready to send the signal when needed.

"Hello the gate!" he called, softening the words of his Westron to make it sound more Gondorian. "Let us in! Henneth and Henneth Annun have fallen – we're all that could get out! The enemy's not more than a day behind us!"

Fuinur fought to keep a smile off his face at the joke. After all, the rest of the brigade was less than a _minute_ behind them…

The gate did not open, but a slot in it did – about eye level. "Who did you say you were?"

There wasn't much more than eyes visible through the crack, so Fuinur couldn't tell much about the person on the other side. About all there was was that the figure had brown eyes. Still… it was a good sign, he supposed – they sounded worried, as might be expected if they brought his lie about the refuge and supporting town. "I'm Captain Maillion, the garrison number two at Henneth Annun – or was. Orcs from the Black Gate took it three days ago."

"And you've come all the way here in that short a time?" _Moron,_ Fuinur thought. That was average time… admittedly, though, if the garritroops here had been sitting on their arses for as long as they probably had been, they'd have no idea how fast cavalry could move.

A trooper behind him cursed. Fuinur almost blanched – the curse had been in Black Adûnaic, a similar but distinct tongue to Westron with far more gutturals thanks to association with Black Speech. "Shut up!" he shouted, still in Westron. "We're almost safe!"

"Nao," the trooper said, slowly, in poor Westron that was probably ruining their masquerade. "I smell… smoke."

* * *

><p>"Now!" Lurtz barked, and the ten Recon uruks in the gatehouse lit their grenades from slow-match and threw them down the murder holes.<p>

* * *

><p>Fuinur felt an object strike him on the helmet. <em>What the-<em>

Then the world ended.

* * *

><p>Ancalimon of Udun fell backwards off his horse as it startled, and collapsed to the ground. There was a stinging pain in his left arm, and blood was pouring into his left eye – but it looked like he was better off than most of the cavalry troop.<p>

_"Damnit!"_ he coughed in the Holy Tongue, the harsh gutturals calming him a little. Where had those come from… there! Above!

Sticking out his good arm and focusing on the might of the Burning Eye, he shouted in the Holy Tongue. "Throqughaash!" _Devouring flame._

* * *

><p>Lurtz flinched back as a glob of fire shot back up through one of the murder holes, barely missed his head and splashed off the ceiling to rain back down across the room in little embers.<p>

It was very impressive, a little corner of his mind noted. Channeling _direct_ power was very costly, much more than a more subtle effect, and much more for mortals than for such as the Istari… or, at least, that was what he understood from talking to Saruman about it once.

The troopers, almost to a man, rolled away from the holes with their bodies over their remaining grenades – letting those come into contact with fire would be a _very_ bad thing. The two uruks at the other end of the room didn't seem to have noticed, too involved with firing at the survivors of the barrage.

"Close, but that only counts with artillery and hand grenades," Lurtz muttered, and fired three times with his revolver. Both the humans who were still moving that he could see through the hole in question jerked and went still, having taken shots to the head or the throat.

Then he cursed, seeing that the molten flame had caught on two weapon racks and a wall-hanging. "Everyone! Put the grenades safe outside – quickly! – and then get some water, we need to put out the fire!"

Below, the postern opened and disgorged a dozen Gondor soldiers with swords. They quickly finished off the Black Númenóreans – in most case it was a mercy – and similarly killed those horses too wounded to survive. The remainder were brought in through the gate – they _were_ perfectly serviceable horses, after all.

* * *

><p>"Well, this won't be easy for them," Gimli observed with satisfaction. "There's worse places to defend."<p>

"Agreed." Legolas looked out past the ford. "Movement in the trees. They're confused, I think – they were expecting a message by now." The elf pointed. "Look, that must be the commander."

Gimli squinted. "I can barely see anything! That must be over a mile away."

"Nearly that, but he's in good light and staying still." Legolas shrugged. "He's getting out a map, anyway. Or something in a scroll-case." The elf looked contemplative for a moment, then unlimbered his bow. "I think I'll get an early start."

"Wait, you can't be serious." The dwarf looked alarmed. "That far?"

"And why not?" Legolas drew his bow taut, an arrow on the string, and aimed carefully. The wood of his longbow creaked alarmingly, and then he let the yard-long shaft loose.

* * *

><p>Lurtz gaped at the <em>impossible<em> shot. Fumbling his telescope out, he focused in on the only party of enemy soldiers he could see – their command group, which was actually outside rifle range at what he estimated to be 1300 metres or so.

After he'd been focused in for a good two seconds, one of the men in the party fell slowly backwards. There was an arrow shaft sticking out of his eye.

* * *

><p>"One," Legolas said, with perhaps a hint of smugness.<p>

"…Well, I can see why they sent you with us, laddie," Gimli muttered.

As the news spread, a cheer went up from the walls.

* * *

><p>"I wonder what they'll try now," Lord Cair Andros muttered.<p>

"Well, your island's blessing is her position in the middle of the river. Granted, the ford is shallower on the east side, but that's still going to be a nightmare to cross with scaling ladders." Lurtz sat back, watching the sun sink in the west through one window of the council room. "I'd guess they're either going to try making some rams and force the gate; combine that with an attempt at a grapnel escalade; or try for torsion engines – but that'll serve our purposes well enough, actually, those things take ages to make."

"True." Aragorn toyed with Anduril's hilt. "I could wish we had more support, to break the interdiction, but what we have must do. How go things to the south?"

"Badly." Lurtz shrugged. "Latest reports from the crows are that Faramir has retreated to the west bank, and destroyed the bridges over the Anduin at Osgiliath. He can hold whatever infiltrates across the river around the city, but sooner or later they'll launch a waterborne assault and he'll have to abandon."

"Well, it seems that, for now, the enemy is still on the eastern bank," the lord of the city said. "Which is good news for us."

"Indeed." Aragorn nodded.

"I'd like to raise an issue, actually," Lurtz said. "Any water for drinking should be boiled – for ten minutes, at a rolling boil. No exceptions."

"Why?" Cair Andros asked.

"It sterilizes the water." Lurtz stood up, and began pacing. "It's something that's been on my mind ever since I was taught about it. For Rivendell and Lothlorien, their water is pure enough, and for our own company we have enough sterilizing powder. But Cair Andros is in the middle of a mighty river, one which drains half a continent… complete with any muck or dirt or animal dung there. It's honestly nauseating to think about. But boiling the water makes it safe. No disease."

"_No_ disease?" Aragorn repeated, carefully. "What do you mean by _no_ disease?"

"I mean that, not only will there be no epidemic – as so often visits a city under siege – but that the disease rate will likely be _less_ than in the normal times of year." Lurtz waved a hand. "I can't promise that nobody will die of disease – enough of them are transmitted in the air, or through bad food, or fleas – but most contagions get into the water. And boiling the water, if done for long enough, kills them."

Aragorn sat back, thinking. "It'll be costly of wood."

"Let it." Lurtz looked over at the Lord. "I take it you _did_ keep your city ready for siege?"

"Oh, yes, of course."

"Well, that means a year's supply of things like wood." Lurtz then pointed on a map. "And when – not if, _when_, and this year – we take the fight across the Anduin, this is one of the only fording points which is suitable for an army. Certainly the best one to use as a supply route for an army interdicting the Black Gates. So clearing out the besiegers will be a priority for Saruman. I'd guess you'll be out of danger by June, if not earlier – so assume that you'll be relieved in November and use resources to that effect."

"Prudent." Both men were nodding now, understanding the uruk's point.

"Besides, the west ford is still clear. Worse comes to worst, we can go get supplies there…"

Cair Andros snapped his fingers. _"That_ must be why wine and beer are so much safer than water!" When the others turned to look at him, he grinned uncertainly. "Sorry, I just made the connection. The first step in making alcoholic drinks is to boil the water that is to be used to make it."

"…yes, that would do it." Lurtz nodded. "Strong alcohol is used to wash out wounds, I know that, but in weak form it wouldn't do much."

"Right." Cair Andros coughed. "Sorry about that. Anyway. I was wondering if perhaps we should put up an internal wall – inside the gate, I mean – so that if the enemy do batter the gates down then your _rifles_ can rake them without being swarmed."

"Might be a good idea…" Lurtz picked up a blank sheet of paper and a graphite stick. "I'll see what might fit. And we'll need to make sure not to interdict the movement of the reserves…"

* * *

><p>"Well, mister Frodo," Sam said, raising a glass. "There are worse ways to spend time! Lothlorien was like a place out of a dream, but you do sometimes long for the company of people who know how to make dumplings."<p>

Merry snorted at the prosaic comment.

Frodo said nothing at first, frowning.

"Cheer up!" Pippin said, dropping into a seat next to him. "Come on, we'll be fine. We're more than halfway there, aren't we?"

"I know, but…" Frodo shrugged. "I just feel off, lately."

"Best cure for that is a tot of brandy," Merry opined. "I should know."

"Brandy whiner." Pippin shot back.

"Ooh, you!"

Frodo cracked a smile as he saw the two rowdies enjoying themselves. They had a good point, actually… they'd been in some pretty nasty situations already, but so had Bilbo – and he was the model of a proper Hobbit.

Well, actually, he was a disreputable rascal with far too much of an adventurous streak, but he seemed to have a lot more _fun_ that way. And if Bilbo had talked to a dragon in its lair, then surely he could do just as well.

* * *

><p>"Close one," Faramir said, cleaning his sword on the clothes of the dead orc in front of him. The probing attacks across the river were getting steadily worse, especially when his archers were kept busy warning off Nazgul on fell beasts.<p>

"True." His lieutenant spat on the corpse. "Filthy beast. What do you think they'll try now?"

"I don't know." Faramir shook his head, frustrated. "They're still entering the city, so they're still building up – perhaps they moved faster than they were planning to, or something; given how long since their first echelon arrived, they'd have a million men if it was a single contingous field army. What worries me, though, are those Mumakil."

"Twenty-three of them," the lieutenant sighed. "If we'd had time for one more sortie, we could have reduced them to twenty."

"We didn't." Faramir shrugged. "That's all there is to it. I still don't know how they're going to get them across the river, but they must have _something_ planned."

"The only logical place is right here," the lieutenant said, then grinned at Faramir's unsurprised expression. "Yeah, obvious, isn't it?"

"It is." Faramir frowned. "They'll be here in a week, I think. And that means that it's not much more than a week – at most – before the orcs hope to have us driven out of Osgiliath entirely. After all, what do you call a Mumak in a city fight?"

"…I'm going to go with 'dinner'," the ranger said, after pretending to think about it.

"A tough meal, true, but accurate." Faramir drummed his fingers on the wall, then snapped his fingers. "Courier to the City." An experienced dispatch rider came over. It was completely unnecessary to ask _which_ city, of course – only one place in all of Gondor was '_the_ City'. "Message to Denethor, and to the commander of the city garrison. Request permission to withdraw at my discretion, abandoning the city, if I feel my position becomes untenable. I estimate that the current number of orcs in East Osgiliath has passed thirty thousand, and I do not have the numbers to sustain combat on this scale."

His lieutenant had been writing the message down as he spoke. "Anything else?"

"…yes." Faramir counted for a moment. "Further, at least eight hundred orcs have been killed in _West_ Osgiliath this past few days. These harassing attacks are likely to be probing my defences, so that a future assault may succeed. That's all."

"Got it," the courier said, and accepted the paper. "Right, I'm off."

"Ride well." Faramir clasped his forearm – a bit familiar, perhaps, but the man was off to, potentially, run a gauntlet of fell beasts. It looked like they were all in the east for the moment, but…

* * *

><p>"Withdraw?" Denethor said, throttling anger. "I…"<p>

"Father!" Boromir said sharply. "If his count is right, then he is facing a force dozens of times the size of his current command. Even the advantages of defending in a city are not enough. In fact, I counsel an immediate withdrawl to the city itself."

"Why?" Denethor asked, his colour fading a little at Boromir's point. He forced himself to consider rationally.

"Faramir has much of our field force – especially the Rangers – with him. Under normal circumstances, we would be calling out the levy of the fiefdoms by now, but we cannot thanks to the threat of Umbar. So we can _not_ afford to lose trained men." Boromir pointed across the Pelennor to the barely visible bulk of Osgiliath. "City fights cost both sides time, but they cost both sides _men_ even more. And Faramir's best troops are not equipped to fight a battle in the city – they are raiders, ambushers. Better to hold the enemy at the walls of Minas Tirith, which are built for the purpose."

"Why not Rammas Echor?" Denethor asked.

"Rammas Echor is a strong position, but it is built for the full muster of Gondor to hold," Boromir replied. "We don't have enough men to stop an escalade around the whole perimeter. Minas Tirith, on the other hand, can not be outflanked – and it is a short enough wall to hold." The captain-general then shrugged. "Besides, the reinforcements we _can_ call are the Rohirrim and Isengard – and the Rohirrim, for one, are no use whatsoever in a battle in a city, but are a terror to smite Sauron himself on an open plain like Pelennor."

Denethor sighed, seeming to shrink in upon himself. "Very well. Send the orders – and go yourself, with the rest of our mounted men and as many others as we have horse for. If Faramir must abandon Osgiliath, then the foe may try to speed him along his way."

Boromir nodded. He was almost out of the room when Denethor called after him. "And Boromir?"

He stopped, half turning. "Yes, father?"

"…thank you. You always did have more sense than me."

"Not more sense," Boromir denied. "Just more caution."

"It's completely topsy turvy." Denethor managed a chuckle. "I thought the young hot heads were supposed to be the reckless ones."

Boromir matched his grin, then left and began shouting orders.

* * *

><p>Baresmanas inspected the large, wooden contraption. "You say this will break the westerners' walls?"<p>

"Indeed, lord." The engineer wiped his brow – though he was the one in charge of the construction crew, he'd put a deal of effort into it himself. "Torsion artillery may only hold the strength that the elastic it uses can withstand. This may store up far more effort, and throw far larger rocks."

"Very good." Baresmanas pointed towards the distant bulk of Uldonovan. "Break their walls for me, and you will be richly rewarded." He began to walk back to his command tent, and tossed a last remark over his shoulder. "Fail, and you will be impaled."

The engineer gulped in a flash of fear. It could take days to die, if a man was impaled on a short stake. Torture and execution in one.

"Pharises!" he called, fear turning to determination. "Get the ballast ready! I want to register this thing!"

* * *

><p>"Well, it would appear they <em>do<em> have trebuchet." Marek lowered his telescope. "Or one of them, at least."

"I suppose it was inevitable they'd work it out eventually," Uldonovan agreed, taking the proffered telescope and looking himself. "How do you make it less blurry?"

Marek demonstrated how the eyepiece could be rotated to focus the telescope.

"Thank you… hmm, smaller than the ones Gondor uses. That's a blessing. But it'll probably be able to lob rocks more frequently."

"Should we start the second-wall and the preparations?" Marek asked, then shook his head. "No, that's foolish of me; we don't even know where they're going to be breaching the wall yet."

The distant contraption jerked suddenly, the short arm with a rock-filled bucket going down and the long arm whipping round and up, releasing a huge boulder.

Marek started counting under his breath. "…six, seven, eight…"

Just after 'nine', the rock hurled by the trebuchet hit the ground in front of the walls, and rolled to a stop amidst what little detritis was left from the last attack.

"Well, they missed that one, but that must be… oh, easily eighty metres per second as it gets here." Marek looked at the rock, trying to gauge the size. "What would you say that is?"

"To me, it looks about eighty pounds," Uldonovan said.

"Powerful enough…"

It was about four minutes later that the second rock came flying towards the wall. This one clipped a merlon and bounced, spinning, into the city.

"It looks like that's the place, then," Marek said, nodding towards the left-hand wall area. Neither of them commented on the wall of a house that had been shattered by the projectile. "Shall we get down to the business of preparing the reception?"

"Indeed." The baron grinned, boyishly. "I'd hate for them to find my hospitality lacking."

"My oath, yes." Marek paused. "What about housing? This is going to displace a good number of your subjects…"

"The governor's house has some free space, the law courts more, and I'm sure most of the more well-to-do families have a room or two they can give up," Uldonovan replied promptly. "I've been thinking about it as well."

"Well, if you have plans already, that's good enough for me." Marek shook the baron's hand, and then started down the stairs of the tower.

* * *

><p>About a hundred workers struggled to get the iron frames of a bridge erected in cold, wintry rain. They'd started about five hours ago, well ahead of the advancing rail head, but by now it was only an hour or so away from them – and the bridge was vital to allowing the construction of the pioneer line.<p>

One of the orc labourers lost his grip, freezing fingers unable to support his weight, and fell with an abrupt cry into the river's floodwater. The cry didn't last long, as he was dashed by the torrent against a boulder and died instantly.

"Fuck!" the coordinator swore. "That's three since we started this misbegotten bridge!"

Two Scout troopers rode off downstream to retrieve the body, and give it what burial they could.

"Sir, should we slow down?" someone asked. "We could wait out the storm, at least-"

"No." The words were firm. "If I lose three, five, ten, even twenty on this bridge, then it'll be worth it compared to delaying the rail line a single day. If the armies of Isengard are a day late to battle because the rail line wasn't ready, then there might be a hundred and twenty _thousand_ deaths at stake. We keep going." The coordinator looked at the straining workers, then laid down his clipboard under an oilskin and went down to put his own back into it.

* * *

><p>"A difficult question indeed…" Elrond said, frowning. "From what you have told me, the weapons of Isengard are far superior to the ones that are in use by the orcs we face."<p>

"Indeed." Elladan shrugged. "I do not know by how much, but it seemed clear that the weapon we took south as evidence was almost… offensive, to them."

"I suppose I might react the same way if shown an orc-bow." Elrond tapped the table. "What do you think?"

"Accept," Elladan said promptly. "In full."

Elrond's eyebrow raised. "Why so?"

The younger elf launched into the argument he'd been having with himself the whole way back. "First – bows are obsolescent. Not obsolete, but nearly so. From what Arwen told us of her meeting with the orc Lurtz, they have a maximum effective range of over a thousand yards. That kind of accuracy is possible, _possible_, with an elven bow, but it requires an excellent wind. Arrows just move too slowly otherwise."

"I could wish it were not so," Elrond noted. "Go on."

"The weapons they use – they're powerful, as well. And the power does not depend on the strength of the user." Elladan elaborated. "As it is, those of us who are to be archers or swordsmen or spearmen must work constantly to keep our muscles at the strength required, even once the skill is honed to perfection. That limitation does _not_ apply to a… _rifle_." Elladan swallowed. "Besides which, his offer was generous. More generous than it needed to be. He could have demanded many concessions – instead, all he seeks is that we buy the weapons, and he is even giving us what amounts to a loan."

"There is the oath, though," Elrond stated.

"There is." Elladan shook his head. "I… I had thought we should accept, and then break the oath if he subsequently attacked us. But even if his intent was to deceive us in such a way… he only required that the specific weapons not be turned against Isengard. Accepting only strengthens us, and if war does develop we may use our old weapons without penalty."

Elrond nodded.

"And besides which," Elladan continued, "he did not specify that we should not copy the weapons. Elven metalwork is still excellent."

"It is." Elrond stood. "Well done, then. Your arguments are cogent and well reasoned. I shall consider the matter with the others I may, and you shall hear what I think on the morrow."

Elladan nodded. "I was going to go see Elrohir."

"Do convey my love, and apologize for me that I will not be able to visit this evening. I believe Arwen may be there as well."

* * *

><p>As evening fell, Boromir and several hundred cavalry rode out of the east gate of Rammas Echor – and the large fortress built around it, the crossing forts – and into Osgiliath.<p>

Boromir moved quickly once they made contact with Faramir's Army of Osgiliath, making his way to his brother.

"Boromir." Faramir said, embracing him. "It's good to see you."

"And you." Boromir returned the embrace, then patted his brother on the back. "Come on. Duty calls."

"Yes, oh lord of the Citadel." Faramir grinned. "What took you so long?"

"I lost my horse crossing the Branduin river and had to walk to Rivendell and back," Boromir summarized. "There's more to it, but I'll tell you later. We need to get you out of Osgiliath, little brother."

"Why?" Faramir frowned. "I know I said that I wanted permission to withdraw, but that was chiefly at my discretion – we're holding fine for now. I was thinking of a fighting retreat."

"You haven't seen what I have." Boromir counted under his breath. "It's been about a week since I was up at Amon Hen, and I saw the size of the army coming through via Minas Morgul. You're not going to be outnumbered, you're going to be buried." A grimace. "Two hundred thousand."

Faramir started with shock. "That's…"

"The biggest field army in generations. I know. Sauron is stirring, Faramir. There's also an attack on Cair Andros being put in, and the Fiefdoms can't help…"

"I know about the corsairs," Faramir interrupted. "Their raids have been vicious all winter. Imrahil led a charge which prevented them from taking a gate in the seawall of Dol Amroth and putting the city to the torch."

"So I heard." Boromir fiddled with the hilt of his sword. "Here's what we'll do. Pull your men out of the city overnight – I'll move my own in to take their places. Leave a few dozen experts in the city's layout, to guide my squads, and we'll hide the horses. Tomorrow night, we'll all ride for Minas Tirith under cover of darkness – the men at the crossing forts, too, except for whoever wants to stay behind as rearguard."

"Won't work." Faramir shook his head. "I know you've probably brought horses for my men, but they're the ones experienced in city fighting. It's not something you can learn overnight – it'll be obvious that the forces holding the city have changed, and they might push an assault."

"Well, that's me told." Boromir grinned. "Okay, I'll have my reinforcements stiffen yours on a squad integration basis. That work?"

"Should do…" Faramir thought for a minute. "Yes, it'll take a lot of pressure off them if they can have a few extra bodies around. And then tomorrow night we ride back."

* * *

><p>Faramir was hauled out of a fitful sleep by a hand on his shoulder. "Sir? Scout from the front, says he has important news."<p>

Blinking in the afternoon sun, and yawning – he'd only got about five hours – Faramir slipped his armour on. "Go on."

"Contingent of the Ithilien Rangers managed to close to the river, and one of 'em spotted boats. Big ones."

"All right, then." Faramir grimaced, seeing that he'd likely get no more sleep before the evacuation. "Take me to him."

* * *

><p>"Sir, I think – my family ran a ferry – I think if they loaded it on a calm day for the river, they could fit hundreds of troops in there. And if they've built them all along the shore…"<p>

"Of course." Faramir shook his head. "Never a dull moment… alright. So they're planning on a major amphibious assault, very shortly. And if they get that beach-head…"

"We'd have to fall back to the crossing forts, right enough," a ranger said.

"I hate to surrender a river crossing unfought, but if they have that many boats, that big, they could swamp us. We just don't have the firepower to intercept them mid-crossing, and if they're charging battalion-sized forces at us we won't have the numbers to hold back more than… two or three barges' worth at a time, not and do it certainly." Faramir nodded sharply. "Okay, courier to General Boromir. Inform him that there is a possibility the enemy may be preparing for amphibious assault, and request he expedite preparations to pull out – I don't want to wait for full dark."

"Understood."

* * *

><p>That night, Minas Morgul opened her gates and threw a great column of green fire into the sky. Men from all across eastern Gondor saw, and wondered what it portended.<p>

* * *

><p>One orc knew exactly what it meant. Gothmog, mortal commander of the Army of Sauron, had departed the Tower of Witchcraft a month before to take a personal hand in the actions of his army's vanguard.<p>

The green blaze of light meant that his army had begun the final leg of its march. He had to secure the western half of Osgiliath within two days in order that the transfer of troops and supplies could begin in timely fashion.

Fortunately, the army assigned to Gothmog was so large that the vanguard alone was forty thousand strong.

"Quietly, quietly," he hissed, as the first wave of transports moved across the Anduin under cover of night. "I'll have the head of the first one to make a splash!"

The threat wasn't serious – he couldn't possibly tell who had made the splash in this darkness, at least if it was on a different boat. But the point came across well enough.

Gothmog was in the first of the flat-bottomed barges to be launched. He was a fighting commander, not a coward – but even the well-armoured assault troops of the first wave were one company to a barge, so he was hardly in too great a danger.

The barge grated on the bottom of the river, on debris from the bridge. Came free. Stuck again, this time right at the shore.

Looking north and south, he saw other barges grounding. "Good," he said, still whispering. "Three, two, one-!"

"SAURON!" came the cry from four thousand throats, as the front ramps of the barges went down and the elite of the Army of Sauron charged. As soon as they were off, the barges and their forty orc rowers began making for the east bank once more.

No secrecy now – four thousand heavy infantry would have been impossible to camouflage in any event, simply from the sound of their footfalls. Shock would push them through the most dangerous zone, near the water, and give them space to fall back once more once the Gondorians rallied, to await the reinforcements.

After a moment, Gothmog began to frown. "Where are they?"

He slowed to a walk, and most of the company bypassed him. His bodyguards stayed with him. "Gerez. Find somewhere high up, I need a good view."

The indicated orc saluted and dashed off.

* * *

><p>"Well?" the commander asked two hours later, face set in a scowl.<p>

"We found only three humans in the city. They all killed themselves before capture." Larish, one of the sub-commanders, looked nervously at Gothmog's bodyguards. They would kill him the moment the order was given…

"Supplies?"

"Nothing, beyond some mouldy grain and a few caches of arrows." Larish shrugged. "Nothing useful, anyway. There was some wine, but it was all poisoned – so say the shamans."

"And have those shamans managed to find why the Gondorians left in advance of our coming?" Gothmog asked, his voice noticeably louder. "I wanted this city, they gave it to us. Why? Why would they abandon the river?"

He got up and started pacing. "It would make sense if they knew our assault was coming tonight, but-!" he stopped. "The corsairs!"

"What about them?" Larish asked.

"The sea-rat humans did their job too well!" Gothmog bit out curses in Black Speech. "They know they can't hold the long wall without their muster – we'd hoped they'd at least try it! Someone get the commander of the warg riders, I want them turned out for general pursuit! And send my conclusions to the Witch-King – if his beasts can catch them in the open in Pelennor, we can do them heavy damage. Move!"

The term 'scorched earth', in military matters, is usually something of a joke. Above all, it is _hard_ to destroy all the food in a large area. It took a long time to grow, and peasants spend their entire lives working on it – and usually spend every day tending the plants or animals from sunrise to sunset.

To expect an army of soldiers to destroy or collect up the food is to expect them to complete a harvest in a matter of days or weeks. Certainly it is easy to destroy _some_ of the foodstocks, but to truly ruin an area of land there is only one real method that works. Kill all the peasants, and let their bodies foster plague.

Fortunately for Boromir, the peasantry of the Pelennor were all Gondorian and strongly patriotic – at least, when a large army was approaching. That, and the reminder that Minas Tirith held reserve grain supplies, was enough to let the small parties of soldiers he'd left behind when he rode to Osgiliath move as much as they could which could be taken into the city – herds, in the main, along with what peasants had in their homes – and burn what they couldn't take but which would still be useful to an invader. (The majority of the crops, still many months from harvest, were simply left.)

Other preparations were also being made. Blacksmiths made arrow-heads, spear points, shield bosses and spare swords, and other workers turned them into the panoply of war. And overhead, high above the Tower of Guard itself, a beacon blazed into the night. Amon Din answered, and then Eilenach, and beyond that they were out of sight of the city itself.

Thus, when the brothers rode by night across the Pelennor fields at the trot, torches held by soldiers moving like a swarm of fireflies behind them, they could smell the smoke and see the pinprick fires of a city making ready for war.

"Impressive sight," Boromir commented.

"It is," Faramir agreed, one eye on the road that was illuminated faintly by the light of Minas Morgul behind them. "I'm _so_ glad this was swept clear recently… riding in the dark makes my teeth itch."

* * *

><p>"So, it begins," Saruman said softly.<p>

Opening his eyes, he took up his staff and revolver, and headed for the door of his chambers.

* * *

><p>"Ternak," Saruman said.<p>

The Logistics commander looked up. "Yes, lord?"

"How is the rail net?"

"Net's pushing it…" The uruk shrugged. "We've got a fair amount of coal and water stockpiled, and we're only about ten miles from the terminus being set up at the north gate of Rammas Echor at last report."

"Good. Start staging coal and water for a major troop movement. I'm going to want to move as many as we can, less one regiment of infantry for garrison."

"Right…" Ternak frowned. "I think we've got the second regular cavalry regiment incorporated?"

Saruman nodded.

"Right. So that's… call it thirty-nine hundred troopers and wargs… for troop movement alone, that's nearly six hundred box-cars worth." Ternak shrugged. "We don't have nearly that many. Anything else we need moved?"

"Supplies for ten thousand horse and men, to be placed where the muster of Rohan makes camp." Saruman counted. "Full artillery and rapidgun support for the regiments being moved, and ammunition of course – say, double load of it. Though if it simplifies things, take single load and send the second half as the last trip."

"Right." Ternak picked up his slide rule and began making notes on some paper, consulting sheets of paper and parchment as he went.

Saruman waited. Central could have solved the problem in minutes-

_Seconds._

-but that _would_ look a bit odd.

After about half an hour, Ternak looked up. "Right. Assuming we start as soon as the line's finished… call it three days to be fully assembled at the rail head, and another day beforehand to move the coal and water. The food can go anywhere in the schedule – the main limiting factor during the movement is simple availability of box cars, and we can ship supplies in other types of wagon."

"Very good." That was about as long as it would take Rohan to muster, anyway. "See to it."

Ternak nodded, and left, already calling for his subordinates.

* * *

><p>"The beacons are lit." Theoden sighed, for a moment looking all of his seventy-one years. "So, Rohan rides to war." Then his eyes lit, and he shed the age like a cloak. "And what a war. The great clash of nations, generations in the making."<p>

Theodred frowned. "The armies of the Shadow are large."

"Yes," Theoden replied simply. "But Eorl the Young rode to save Gondor, and how can we call ourselves kings of the House of Eorl if we do not honour that allegiance?"

Theodred, and Hurin and Grimbold and Gamling all felt their own blood stir. "A ride of legend, and a battle to make myths look feeble," Grimbold murmured.

"Yes. Yes!" Theoden swept all of them with his gaze. "Summon your hosts. Rohan shall ride!"

Theoden made for the door. "Fetch the arms-man and messengers! And turn out my guard! We muster at Dunharrow, to ride to Gondor!"

Theoden hadn't had to think much, in picking Dunharrow. To be sure, the mustering point was important – after all, his army had to be concentrated before it could ride anywhere, or it could turn up spread out over the course of weeks – but Dunharrow had long been the standard choice. Given how far messengers would have to ride, calling out the muster, and how far the Éored would have to ride in return, Dunharrow let him concentrate from the whole Wold, East- and Westfold, and Enmet, relatively quickly. In fact, the only places likely to be missed were the westernmost reaches of Rohan itself and the banks of the Limlight – besides, that would be only two or three Éored missed.

As it was, though, he would be relying on the general order to concentrate given earlier in the year, and the quality of Rohirric courier hourses.

The legends of the House of Eorl emphasized the ride _to_ the field of Celebrant almost as much as the actual battle fought _at_ Celebrant. And there was a very good reason for that.

* * *

><p>Saruman left the gates of Isengard as dawn broke, accompanied by a party of Scout cavalry – around a platoon's worth – and Eomer. While he wasn't up to an extended ride, that wasn't much of an issue.<p>

Because they were taking the train.

The pioneer line train was carrying a heavy load of coal and water, which the six box-cars containing the platoon, Eomer and Saruman did not appreciably hinder. And while freight was carried slower, in truth, than horse or warg could manage at full speed… to manage full speed for hours was wearying enough for wargs.

For horses, it would be impossible.

* * *

><p>The closest station to Edoras sat a discreet mile outside the Golden Hall, affording it the separation necessary that Theoden could avoid making an issue of its presence. Saruman and his accompaniment detrained at eleven in the morning, and rode up to Edoras's gates ten minutes later.<p>

Fortunately, matters of logistics and preparation had eaten the hours since dawn – Theoden had not yet ridden out for Dunharrow.

"Isengard proposes an alliance against the forces of Mordor," Saruman began without preamble, striding into the Golden Hall. "We will transport food for the horses, if you keep to the line of the railway and supply as much as you can to the stations on the rail line. No need for the army to forage. And I can commit three thousand, six hundred mounted troops and an additional twelve hundred infantry, for the upcoming campaign. Another twelve hundred infantry are being held back for defensive operations – enforcing the truce among their duties."

Theoden blinked. "A bold offer. But how-"

"You have seen the engines travelling past, along the railway?" Saruman interrupted. After a moment, Theoden confirmed the obvious. "Each of those may carry three hundred tons of usable freight. Total capacity, given the current circumstances, comes to several thousand tons per day."

The wizard quirked a smile. "I realize that it is not normal, Rohan fighting alongside orcs. But both of us wish to see Gondor endure. They're better neighbours than Sauron, for one."

"True enough." Theoden nodded. "Right, that will simplify things. Hurin, get our emergency siege stockpile ready to move down to the… what was it?"

"Station."

"Right. That's a years' worth of grain, stockpiled against a famine or siege… but it isn't as if we have a better use for it than smiting the armies of Mordor, and we can always build it up later. And send runners to every fort within a day's travel of the rail line, as well."

The bustle intensified. Saruman approached Theoden more closely, now that matters of perhaps greater delicacy became important. "There is something more, as well. Down by the station. I would ask you to accompany me."

Theoden looked around, then nodded. "I'll need to ride to Dunharrow myself, rather than take your train, but it's at least another hour or two before I'll feel comfortable leaving."

"Good."

* * *

><p>Theoden made quite a sight, as he accompanied Saruman down to the platform. He rode Snowmane, his marvellous stallion, and was accompanied by a banner – making it clear for all to see that this <em>was<em> the King of Rohan.

And making it clear that he, for one, was putting at least some trust into the lord of Isengard.

"So, what is this mysterious personal matter?" Theoden asked, frowning, as they slowed. "Is it-"

Then he saw the man coming painfully to his feet from a chair placed on the platform.

"Uncle," Eomer said, shame-faced.

"So," Theoden said, emotionlessly. "He did survive, then."

"Indeed he did, King of Rohan." Saruman left the two royals to their own devices, and stood watching as an empty freight train from the south-east went into a passing loop, letting a full one steam past from Isengard.

* * *

><p>"My nephew," Theoden said, shaking his head. "I love you like a son, sister-son that you are, but… what were you <em>thinking?<em>"

"I did it for love of you, uncle." Eomer didn't meet Theoden's eyes. "I had thought you were under Saruman's bespellment, to make peace with orcs and with the wild-men…"

"I could wish your love was better shown," Theoden observed. "It is scant comfort for your filial devotion, when it robs me of fifteen éored on the eve of Rohan's greatest battle."

Eomer's head bowed lower.

Eventually, Theoden sighed. "I will send messengers to the far west and north of Rohan. Take the force thus concentrated – all the éored that cannot reach my muster in time – and defend our north-east frontier. Or, if possible, strike any invading forces before they cross the Anduin."

A moment of consideration. "And I'll send Hama with you, as well. And all the officers will be instructed to listen to _him_, not you, if you disagree."

Eomer nodded, once. A jerky motion of the head. He knew what his uncle was offering him – a chance to redeem himself.

"Show me, Eomer. Show me that your attempt on the Isen was a moment's stupidity, and not a lifetime's."

* * *

><p>"How fast can your cavalry move?"<p>

Theoden frowned. "To concentrate at Dunharrow… that will be around two days, considering that I have ordered those éored for whom it makes more sense to instead head to our later camps. The ride itself, if you can provide provender… five."

Saruman blinked. "Five days only? A hundred miles a day?"

That was… astonishing, actually. Especially for a fairly large force like the Éotheod.

**No camp followers,** Central said. **The Rohirrim are excellent light and medium cavalry, and their entire military structure is geared around low-footprint cavalry tactics.**

**In addition, the quality of their horses conforms to late industrial cavalry horses, but without the need to carry heavy armour – thus increasing their strategic speed.**

"I see why the Rohirrim are famed," Saruman continued – the interruption from Central had taken much less time than it had seemed to him, as usual. "I am having maps of the Pelennor prepared, and will supply them to you as and when it becomes possible – perhaps at the final route camp. We should plan our combined strategy then."

Theoden nodded. "I should go to see to my men. We have a long ride ahead of us."

"Then I shall see you in a week, King of Rohan."

* * *

><p>Uldonovan looked out across the prepared ground. "Not a bad job of work, really."<p>

Marek agreed, silently. All available labour had been put into the work. First, a semicircular area had been cleared – cleared meaning the houses had been demolished – and a wall built around the perimeter. Nothing special, certainly nothing that could resist trebuchet fire, and only as tall as a man. But more than enough to stop a rush.

The wall was extensively loopholed, giving provision for both plunging arrow fire over the wall and direct rifle fire through it – and all but two of the regimental artillery pieces were given their own, larger loopholes.

The rapidguns had been given a different task, that of enfilade fire. They were where the new wall met the old city one, thirty feet or so back from the area that would collapse.

Probably. They weren't certain precisely how big the collapse zone would be, which was exactly why they'd allowed ten metres of leeway.

They were raised up on platforms – themselves protected by wood and proof against arrow fire – and would be able to rake the approach zone once necessary.

As for what gunpowder the town had managed to produce…

"Yes," Marek said, vocalizing his thoughts. "It'll kill a lot of Easterlings, that's for sure."

Another _thud_ marked another trebuchet rock impact. By now the wall was starting to tremble with each hit – only slightly, true, but it likely had less than a day left to stand.

"Your armsmen ready?"

"As they can be," Uldonovan answered.

"Right." Marek tapped his chin. "I'll rotate half my men off the wall for a sleep, then the other half, and make sure they're all fed. I'd advise the same to you – one way or another, we won't need to ration food much longer…"

* * *

><p>AN: Chapter eight. This is basically the bit before fighting <em>really<em> starts.

And yes, that strategic speed for the Rohirrim is accurate. They are the medium cavalry that any real world commander would give their right foot for.


	9. Chapter 9

It was astonishing.

Having been in Uldonovan for some time now, Ugbrag had gotten used to the idea of the wall being there. It had been strange enough to watch it wobble as the rocks slammed into it…

But now it was swaying, back and forth like a tree in a high breeze. And then on one of the sways inwards, it hung, frozen… and then toppled.

The rumbling _crash_ seemed to go on forever, and a choking wave of stone-dust that the light rain and wind couldn't disperse washed over him.

"_Check_ your sights!" the call went up. Fumbling, Ugbrag took his rifle and set the sights to four hundred metres – the distance of the old wall. Loading brass, he closed the lever of his Isen.

Now having a moment, he looked back and forth. His platoon had responsibility for a section of wall about thirty metres in length, right near the middle of the interior wall. Slightly more than one man per metre.

Each battalion also had a reserve platoon back from the walls, which meant the rest of the infantry were all up against the walls aside from the platoons guarding against flank escalade.

Easterling trumpets sounded – probably the call to advance.

"On the word of command!" the lieutenant said, a call echoed down the line.

The wait seemed interminable. Rain drummed on his head and shoulders, and trickled along the small of his back.

"Ready!"

Armoured soldiers appeared at the top of the wall.

"Company-"

"Platoon-"

"FIRE!"

_BAM_.

Around a thousand rifles fired into the confined area of the breach, and men died. Some sent flying backwards by the impact of several bullets, others punched down by one or two, and a few who took glancing blows which broke a bone or gouged at flesh.

The commander of Uldonovan's archers called out commands of his own as the uruks reloaded and the easterling advance continued. Within seconds, sheets of arrows began hitting that same area.

"Aimed fire, platoon volleys…" the drumbeat of firepower marched down the wall towards Ugbrag, "FIRE!"

Pull trigger – absorb impact of rifle – work lever – new round in – close chamber – aim – fire… the process was automatic as breathing.

* * *

><p>"What news?" Baresmanas asked, frowning towards the din of battle.<p>

"Lord, the third brigade of infantry is sent in," one of his emirs said. Baresmanas nodded – that was nine thousand troops into the breach in total. His first cavalry were riding up at the trot, staying dispersed, to act as reserve and help roll up the line – but the second cavalry and fourth infantry were his only remaining units, and both of them badly mauled by the previous assault.

The urge to go in, to see what the westerners were doing to his troops, itched… but if he did that, then he might lose tactical control. Lose sight of the bigger picture.

"…send the fourth infantry over the wall on that sector," he said suddenly, pointing. "It is clear."

"Yes, lord."

* * *

><p>"Fire at the ones inside the walls, lads, the archers are aiming at the ones coming over the wall…" the captain said, strolling down the back line. "Careful! Do that and you'll jam the rifle."<p>

Someone jerked backwards, hit by a lucky arrow that had happened to come through the firing slit. A rifleman from the reserve stepped up smartly to replace him.

There was a _pammm_ as the nearest field gun cut loose, canister splashing out into the Easterlings and cutting a neat cone of destruction… except that this cone was marked out by corpses and the still-living, who were perhaps less fortunate.

Ugbrag fired again and again. Was there no end to this horde? By now he was firing into smoke, though the wind kept it fairly light. Some of the Easterling men were flat up against the wall, in places difficult to hit, and some of _them_ were starting to clamber over.

Revolver shots snapped out up and down the line, underlaying the sharper blasts of rifle fire and the deep, rumbling _boom_ of canister, and the back of Ugbrag's mind asked him what would happen when the officers no longer had rounds in their revolver.

Then the world erupted in front of him.

* * *

><p>What gunpowder that the regimental engineers had managed to produce had been surplus to requirements for any of their own weapons, and useless for resupply. It had instead been used to produce what were called fougasse, or land mines.<p>

Half of them used shrapnel – mainly flattened lead retrieved from the carnage of the first assault – and while it wasn't nearly as good as proper drop shot there was an awful _lot_ of it. Nearly a thousand Easterlings died in an earsplitting, thunderous instant, and as many more took crippling wounds – arms, legs, ribs – that would see them dead within minutes if not taken care off.

The entire assaulting army trembled at the sudden shock, caught between courage and fear.

And then the _other_ half of the fougasse detonated. These ones had been made with the entire city's stock of lamp oil, half the tallow-wax, and anything else incendiary the defenders could mix into the witch's brew… including substantial quantities of extra saltpetre.

Horrible, sticky, sooty, flaming liquid drenched the nearby invaders and stuck to them, burning and clinging, and the assault force broke like glass.

* * *

><p>"Aule's forges!" Ugbrag shouted, coughing in the roil of black smoke. There was a crease along his forehead where a stray piece of gravel had come in the firing slit at speed, but he'd barely noticed over the shock.<p>

"Resume fire!" the captain bellowed over the screams. "Come on, lads, _hammer them_!"

Incredibly, there was still a knot of easterlings maintaining order near the middle of the salient. They lasted about two seconds once the firing restarted, drawing the eye of everyone who could see past the smoke and then wiped away by a canister blast.

* * *

><p>Baresmanas' first cavalry had just enough time to see the panicking Easterlings running back over the breached wall before mortar rounds started slamming down onto them. The casualties caused were relatively light – unlike airbursting shrapnel, the wet ground could severely impede the effects of contact explosive – but the effect was to cause them to lose control over their nervy horses, which began to stampede back the way they had come. And the headlong flight, and the sight of burning men, and still more devil-weapons and the sheer <em>noise <em>of it all, meant that shortly the riders on those horses joined in the general rout.

* * *

><p>The fourth infantry had almost reached the wall when earsplitting explosions came from inside the town, and they flinched – wavering, remembering their casualties last time they had attacked.<p>

Seeing the tide of fleeing Easterlings to their right, they stalled, and were just beginning to pluck up the courage to try the wall when shouts came from their left – _very_ close.

* * *

><p>"Alright, fire!" Marek shouted.<p>

Every single artilleryman, logistics specialist and scout that could be scraped up, along with his reserve, had doubled out of the river gate in column with his two reserve Anduins.

While the uruks with rifles shook out into a double line and formed up to rake the Easterling fourth brigade from the flank, he left that to a captain and began directing the artillery. Their first round slammed into the ground forty metres short of the Easterling trebuchet.

"Adjust up two!" the gun captain shouted, and his mate on the other gun copied him – then fired himself. Both were firing at maximum rate – which would be hell on the lands of the rifling, but they needed the range of that enemy artillery piece _now_. And alternating ranging fire let them get a new impact point every seven seconds.

The second piece whizzed over the top of the trebuchet and hit perhaps fifty metres long.

"Down one!"

The third round hit right-on.

"Three rounds, maximum rate fire, contact fuzed!" Marek said. "Then swing them to hit the Easterling reserve cavalry!"

The trebuchet began to come apart under the hammer of the guns.

* * *

><p>"Cowards!" Baresmanas shouted. "You flee! Damn you! Get my personal guard turned out – we must catch the westerners before they retreat into the city! And half the second cavalry as well!"<p>

Baresmanas' personal guard numbered five hundred heavy cavalry – combined with the second cavalry, that would have given him well over two thousand troops to crush Marek's force. But he had to leave half of them back at camp to provide a rally point for the rest of his shattered army – neglect that, and they would run until they dropped.

It shouldn't be a problem. Sixteen hundred cavalry would be more than enough.

* * *

><p>"Oh, <em>shit,<em>" Tureg muttered. "I _thought_ this commander was on the ball. There's about a thousand cavalry riding out of his camp – he must have kept a real reserve."

Marek glanced over at the guns, which were now slewing to shell the Easterling camp – the trebuchet was little more than broken spars and kindling. "Guns! Two rounds on the camp, then stand by to repel cavalry! Tureg, you get the north side organized – we're going to need three sides of a square, right up against the wall! And runner to the baron – my compliments, and could he redeploy three companies of rifles to the wall? We may need fire support urgently."

"Compliments to the baron, three companies to the wall, sir!"

"Well, _that's_ done…" Marek muttered. "Okay, you lot! Form square! I know you're all pen-pushers, skirmishers and gun cockers, but can you do an infantryman's job today?"

Jeering answered him. Every member of the Army of the Hand was qualified on the rifle, even if they hadn't participated in infantry drill – and enough of them _had_ to give him a complete front line with the less-drilled troops in reserve.

* * *

><p>Ugbrag panted, muscles burning, as he ran up the spiral stairs of one of the towers to reach the fighting platform. He'd heard the Colonel had got himself tree'd outside, and he would be <em>damned<em> if he didn't save the officer!

Aside from anything else, it might be worth something to have your commander in your debt…

There was water dribbling out of the breech of his rifle when he made it to the top; he'd had the chamber open all the way from his post on the internal wall. It was the best way to cool the thing down, because he was probably going to have to rapid fire all over again, and sealed brass rounds didn't care about getting wet.

"Open fire at eight hundred metres, boys…" a sergeant said, taking over direction of fire in the absence of the officers. It had been something of a chaotic scramble to get up onto the wall, and they weren't quite sure where the rest of the company was – at least his squad had stuck together. "And set your sights back, too."

* * *

><p>Two rounds blasted out of the pair of Anduins.<p>

"Canister!" the left gun-captain shouted. "The next one will be canister range!"

Marek felt a kind of awe at the scale of the carnage before him. By now, over a dozen airburst rounds had sliced holes in the Easterling charge, and massed rifle fire had chopped at it again and again. But still they came on, tough cavalrymen – archers and lancers – on powerful, armoured horses. Their charge shaking the earth.

This was the first time an Easterling force had had a chance to try a cavalry charge against the Blood and Steel, and he could see why they were considered so dangerous. Hells, they'd only outnumbered him two or three to one when they started the charge, and they _still_ more than held parity with him. And those fifteen-foot lances were quite a lot longer than his riflemen's bayonets…

No, playing to the Easterners' rules was a losing proposition, it seemed. It would be a near run thing.

Then there was a new note in the gunfire. Looking to his left, he saw that the remainder of the Blood and Steel had taken up firing positions on the tumbled ruin of the town wall and were throwing enfilade fire into the charging cavalry.

"Okay, lads!" he said, drawing his revolver. "We hold them, and they'll disintegrate. Just hold them!"

* * *

><p>Baresmanas felt a tendril of cold fear, as he finally faced what the western weapons could do close-in. Dozens of men cut down at beyond bow-range, with no chance to strike back. Smoke, and sparks, and sound like fire packaged in thunderclaps.<p>

Maybe it truly _was_ witchcraft. Maybe this _was_ an army of wizards.

But they were nearly there now. With training as a shield against fear, the Dehgans accelerated into a canter and then a gallop for the final assault. Lances – and scimitars, for those who had lost their lances – came down. His right flank was melting away, but he still had enough to carry the assault home, and-

Three canister balls, larger and heavier than rifle bullets, tore off one of his arms and pulped his head.

* * *

><p>Marek spun away from the steel head of a lance, chopped it off behind the lappets with a blow of his sabre, and shot the easterling who had tried to stick him with it. Another stood over a rifleman, shortening the lance to stab downwards, and then took a bullet straight to the brain from the companies on the wall.<p>

There were still several hundred Easterlings – even the withering fire they'd been exposed to wasn't quite enough to cut them down – but those with the aggression to carry it through had been in the front ranks and were dying in place. The remainder were jammed by horse bodies and still-living, thrashing animals.

A trumpet sounded – four notes, over and over, and then Baron Uldonovan's armsmen crashed into the back of Baresmanas' cavalry at a swift canter.

"Cease fire!" Marek bellowed. "Sound _cease fire_, damnation! We don't want to shoot our allies!"

He went to sit down, and landed rather harder than he'd intended.

"By Aule, sir, you're wounded!" Tureg said, pointing at blood starting to soak his right sleeve.

"So I am." Marek could feel it now, as the adrenaline began to fade. "So I am. Tureg, please see to our orderly withdrawl to within the city – we wouldn't be able to move out before tomorrow in any case, and I would prefer to hear the Baron's report on his pursuit – oh, and add our scouts to that pursuit, if they are able." He winced, prodding his arm and producing a stab of pain. Further investigation revealed a cut along the outer side of his sleeve – possibly from the tumbling head or lappets of the lance. "I may need to get this looked at."

To the east and north, a paltry force of cavalry inflicted casualties out of all proportion to their numbers. The Easterling army had been completely shattered, with dead or dying at least one in three – far beyond that required to break any normal army – and it would take weeks or months for them to be properly rallied, especially with their leaders dead.

* * *

><p>"Well, that solves one problem," Saruman said to himself.<p>

"Sorry?"

"Ah, Raza." He stood, shaking her hand. "How go things?"

"Fairly well," she said, shrugging. "The regiment like the sound of getting to ride to where we're going, certainly, but they're not appreciating being pushed into stevedoring."

"Unfortunate, yes," Saruman shrugged. "But the construction of the rail line is maximum priority right now. Have you had an opportunity to test the prototype Isen-II?"

Her eyes glowed. "That is a superb weapon. Any chance we can get it first?"

"Well," Saruman shrugged, "The tricky thing is making them in large numbers. We have enough of the Isen I to be going on with, but there's not much point having half of a unit equipped with Isen II if the other half only has the I."

"True, I suppose." Raza grinned. "Look at me, all eager."

"Indeed. So, your report?"

"Right." Raza frowned. "I think the extractor's a great improvement – I didn't get a jam, certainly. But I don't like how much punishment the receiver is going through."

She sank into a chair. "The bayonet fits fine – same model as the Isen I, though I notice that they also gave me a longer one to test?"

"Yes, the two-and-a-half-foot one. That's essentially to make it better for anti-cavalry work." Saruman paused. "The stripper clips?"

"Not bad at their job, but bloody heavy. At least if I were carrying twenty of them." The uruk shrugged. "Not much other choice, though, is there."

_Central?_ Saruman queried.

**Weight reduction will be affected by the adoption of nitrocellulose powders and a smaller calibre round – largely mitigating the problem.**

_We are working on it. As you well know._

Central didn't comment further.

"Well, thank you, Raza." Saruman nodded. "What about the performance as a weapon? How many shots a minute?"

"I was managing twenty by the end of the session." Raza waved her hand. "I think with good drill, that could be pushed higher."

"Aimed?"

"Of course." The colonel sounded offended that she might have not done so. "More accurate than the Isen I, if anything – over short and medium range, at least. Long range, I'm not so sure, but it does save time to be able to pick a target and blaze away several times before reloading." She tapped her chin. "As for cleaning… the detachable magazine seems to help there. I think chaining it in place might be sensible, though, since I can imagine forgetting it…"

"Excellent. Well, I won't detain you longer."

Raza left, and after a minute or so Saruman got up himself to check on the experiments with guncotton.

* * *

><p>"Five days before we saw them," Faramir said, disgusted. "Hardly an army moving at high speed – that's only two day's march, over what's still good forage land even with all our wrecking work, so they must have spent four days sitting on their arses in Osgiliath. Didn't they plan any of this?"<p>

"They did." Boromir grinned, punching his brother on the shoulder. "They just didn't expect us to abandon Osgiliath entirely. And honestly, if they'd moved to invest the city right away then I'd have been disappointed with them – after all, they don't know how many men of the fiefdoms we could have, and if they just sent their vanguard forward-"

"I know, I know." Faramir nodded. "I'm glad for the Blackroot Vale lads, at least."

A battalion of archers from the Vale had fortuitously been present in Minas Tirith, and had been invaluable in keeping Fell Beasts from picking at the walls – their longbows required a truly astonishing amount of strength to draw, but experience hunting birds made shooting at the flying monsters the Nazgul rode easier.

Nothing major had been done, but the threat of losing an eye had warded off the beasts.

"Any more news on that front?"

"Nothing much," Boromir said. "I think the Umbar raiders were paid off to hit us precisely for this purpose – they're losing ships, especially when Dol Amroth manage a pounce with their own galleys, but we'd do much better with the muster of the fiefs here."

"Well, at least the militia is going well." Faramir shook his head. "Going well… I wouldn't have said that last week. About all they can do is stand behind a wall, and either shoot or stab whatever's coming up."

"That's all they need to do."

"I know." Faramir stared into the distance for a moment. "What are they planning?"

"You're worried about the gate, aren't you…" Boromir said. It wasn't a question.

"I am. The walls are hard to breach – nigh impossible, in fact – but the gate's the weak point."

"As always. Well, it'd take them forever to break in with a battering ram, so our main problem is still escalade." Boromir looked out across the plain. "And with that large a force, escalade is a real risk."

"I suggest keeping the knights and the citadel guard back as reserves – and keep a road clear for them to move at high speed. Perhaps…"

* * *

><p>The door boomed.<p>

Gandalf stood, picked up his staff as a support, and walked over to his room's door. "Coming!"

When he opened it, he was greeted by the sight of Denethor.

"Lord steward." Gandalf nodded courteously. "What brings you to my door, at this late an hour?"

Denethor started to speak, then stopped. He tried again, and something in his eyes alerted Gandalf.

The Grey Wanderer focused his awareness. There was a faint tendril of black/red/iron/lava…

When Gandalf opened his eyes again, there was none of the old doddering man. Nor even of the wise old advisor to the rulers of the free peoples.

For all his five hundred years and more of age, Gandalf the Grey was like a warrior-prince, and his eyes flashed with the flame of Arnor. He spread a hand, focused his will, and then Denethor gasped and slumped. The steward only just caught himself before he fell and then staggered to a chair to sit.

"How long?" Gandalf asked, gently now.

"I don't know." Denethor's voice was a croak. "I… Gandalf, I…"

"The palantiri are dangerous, Denethor. Was it that?"

"It… it must have been." The steward shook himself. "I was caught in such a simple snare. Either I use the palantir, gain some advantage over Sauron's forces, and save my people, or…"

"I have no doubt that Sauron planned that." Gandalf sat on his bed, looking at Denethor with new compassion. "But it was always to his own ends. Cause you to rely on the Palantir's power, and then trick you." He paused. "What was it, that made you aware of the mistake?"

"I looked at the area of Osgiliath and Minas Morgul, the day before you arrived. No army. I clung to the hope that maybe you – and my sons – were mistaken, but…"

Denethor gestured helplessly, and Gandalf nodded in answer. It was only three hours ago that the black mass of Sauron's army had come into view from the top of Minas Tirith's towers.

"So, Denethor." Gandalf fixed him with a look. "What will you do now?"

"I…" Denethor's hands clenched and unclenched. "Please… remove the Palantir from my quarters. I don't trust myself with it any more. Aside from that…" he sighed, and if he now seemed much older than he had a bare day before, he also seemed less stressed. "I will do what I always have. The best I can, for my sons and my people."

* * *

><p>A crane of ancient design and cast-iron construction clanked gently as it hoisted another bag of grain from the platform into a freight car.<p>

"Slack off… good, good…" said a supervisor, shading his eyes against evening sunlight. "No, not like that-"

One of the orcs operating the crane traversed it too fast, and the hook tore open one of the already-stowed bags.

"Damn your eyes!" the foreman shouted, audible even over the pervasive rumble/screech of a coal train going past on the main pioneer line. "You think we have this going _spare?_ Why aren't you a fukkin' _stoker_, or should I be grateful because that might let you do some _real _harm?"

The orc cringed away from the tirade.

"Alright, you're going to sweep this lot off the surfaces as best you can, we'll load the other car while you're doing that."

_Aule._ The rail system was working as near to capacity as made no difference, and picking up food from the towns along the route was hard enough _with_ Rohirric guides. How they'd react to spoilage he had _no_ idea…

* * *

><p>Tarkan reined in his warg and signalled for the rest of his squad to do likewise. "Nearly there."<p>

They slowed to a halt before the crest of a small rise, and the corporal toed his mount to the ground before stepping off her and crawling up to the divide itself.

"Looks like they was right," he murmured to the second-in-command. "Raiding party, right enough."

There were a few dozen common orcs – from the looks of them, Dol Guldur stock – and as many sleek-looking wargs, looking with confusion at the twin steel rails of the pioneer line.

"What do we do, corp?" the sturdy NCO asked.

"Wait one," Tarkan replied, looking around. Good flat terrain ahead up as far as the enemy riders, and a minor ravine ahead that the rail line crossed on a box-girder bridge.

Flashing light from a heliograph caught his eye. _Train coming, eh?_

Even with the small number of engines-to-kilometres currently on the railway, good signals were essential – with only a single line, collisions would be entirely possible without advance warning and routing to keep trains at passing loops as appropriate.

Tarkan had heard rumors of something all-weather being planned to supplement the heliograph, which worked unless and until there was rain or fog, and the crows who flew not much faster than trains themselves. But the important bit was that, right now, there was a train on the way.

And that would be about as good a distraction as he could hope for.

"Everyone get their rifles ready – and revolvers," he said quietly. "This'll probably finish up as a melee."

A series of clicks answered him, as safeties went off and rifles were loaded.

They waited tensely as the black dot of the train came into view. Then as the sound built, the chuffing of the boiler and then-

"Go," Tarkan ordered, still softly. The squad surged over the last rise, and cantered closer while the train took all the orcs' attention.

Two or three of them were too fascinated to realize the danger until too late, and lost legs or broke bones as the locomotive battered past them. Their wargs, rather more sensible, broke for the hills along with about a third of the platoon-pack.

"Walk! Aim," Tarkan said, putting action to words as they reached about four hundred metres' distance – good range for individual targets, from wargback. "Remember, aim for the feet. Fire."

The vicious _cracks_ of the first volley didn't quite alert the orcish commander, still gaping after the train, and five of his orcs went down. The second volley _did_ as the train's noise and shock faded, and he spun, shouting the charge.

Twenty or so of his orcs were still mounted, and the movement drew riderless wargs like a lodestone.

"Shoot the wargs!" Tarkan shouted, as the distance between the two forces shrank like magic. "Shoot them, or we're going to have them-" _crack_ "-right up close in a second!"

There were only three mounted orcs left by the time they hit the Isengard squad. The crash of bayonet against sword and a snarling warg-fight erupted on that end of the line, and a second later the ten riderless wargs arrived.

Tarkan fought to stay on his warg, dropping his rifle in the confusion and snatching out his readied revolver. Two bullets went wide, and his personal problem warg slammed his own mount's head into the ground with a hugely powerful cuff.

The effort caused it to stumble, overextended, and Tarkan's third shot hit it in the haunch. Two more hit the jaw as it snarled and leapt for him, and as he went tumbling from the saddle the sixth and final shot blew his attacker's brains out from inside its mouth.

"Fuckit," he muttered, examining a long gash up his arm caused by a canine tooth as he extracted his right arm from the beast. Remembering his job, he looked around with a start.

One Isengarder was badly injured, his warg supporting his weight, and an Isengarder warg lay with a steaming gash through the throat. But there were only seven here, counting him…

Off to the northeast, there was a crackle of rifle fire as a couple of leakers were snapped up. Well, that explained where his missing troopers were.

"Right," he said, suddenly feeling tired. "Okay, see if we got any live ones, grab your kit and get to the nearest station. We ought to report this in – the Wizard needs to know."

Lord Saruman probably already did know, though. Everyone knew about the crows, but there were whispers that he could see through solid objects and read minds.

Still, best to be sure.

And while he'd taken what were probably worse casualties than he might have done, at least he'd caught all the leakers. One thing the Army of Isengard did _not_ need was Sauron's forces trying to work out how to damage a rail line.

The thudding of paws alerted him; looking up, he saw two more Scout troopers riding into view, a loose warg alongside in Isen harness. One of them was nursing a badly bitten hand; best get that medicated as soon as possible.

"Kerek?"

"Dead," the unwounded trooper hissed. "Warg got 'im – we weren't fast enough."

"Damn it." Tarkan shook his head; Kerek had been a good sort. "Much left?"

"Nothing I want to see again."

The corporal looked around. "Well, get your powder out!"

Paper sachets ripped as the iodine powder was sprinkled on wounds. Those who required it hissed as the chemicals stung tender flesh, but they knew the alternative was probably mortification of the limb.

Shera – the trooper lacking a mount – slowly and carefully approached Kerek's warg. The big animal flinched back defensively, then whined and allowed her closer.

"That's it," Tarkan heard her whispering. "I know, it's soon. But we need to get moving."

He put it aside, since she clearly knew what she was doing. A moment more assessing the condition of the most seriously wounded, and he was satisfied.

They could move, at least as far as the nearest station, and hopefully they'd be for light duties after this.

_What a ratfuck._

Those might have been first line Guldur cavalry, come to think of it – they were certainly mounted on wargs in excellent condition, though their skill wasn't up to much.

* * *

><p>"Keep it up, lads," Ternak said, eyes flicking over the company of Logistics soldiers marking out the rail head base.<p>

At thirty miles from the northern perimeter of the Rammas Echor, it would effectively serve as a first-stage anchor for operations to the east. To that end, it was being built big – not so much for the Isen troops, but to hold the supplies, and the entire muster of Rohan on top of that.

Since garrisoning something so large with riflemen would take up well over a regiment's worth of soldiers, the plan was to just not bother and rely on the bastions at the camp's four corners. Rapidguns able to fire down the length of the wall would serve as fairly effective discouragement, and if this place had to stand off a major attack then either the field army would be available to man the walls; reserves could be transported from Isengard; or there would be _far_ worse problems going on. But he'd be damned if he wouldn't build it properly anyway.

Barely a kilometre away was the moving front of the rail line. In just a few hours it would link up with the forward base, and then the work of moving supplies would _really_ begin.

He'd be grateful for the huge amount of labour that that would free up right here, though. Trains would be coming in at a fast rate, now the coal and water reserves were built up along the line, and he'd need to be able to unload them while also getting everything actually built.

Someone with messenger flashes trotted up to him. "Sir, message just came over the heliograph."

The logistics-commander was passed a slip of paper, and unfolded it carefully.

_Artillery being sent first. Need infantry for loading work. Ensure ammunition storage ready by tomorrow morning. Saruman._

Ternak suppressed a sigh. Another change to the plan. Well, at least that did imply that the cavalry would be on the way next.

"Okay, second platoon, mark out that ammunition dump now! We'll need to have it properly indicated when the hired help turns up…"

Speaking of which, the hive of activity had got perceptively closer even as he watched. It was getting a little gloomy with cloud as the afternoon wore on, but-

Ah, there. A number of oil lamps lit up, focused by a mirror and a Fresnel lens each into bright beams. Tricky to make, but worth it to men working at delicate tasks under dim light.

* * *

><p>Saruman walked slowly up to the neat ranks of warg and soldier, standing on the drill ground outside Orthanc proper.<p>

"Soldiers of Isengard," he began, "You are no longer trainees, but full members of the Army of the White Hand."

His voice was not particularly loud, but could be clearly heard even over the noise of trains being loaded, unloaded, departing, arriving.

"It's a hard few years we all have ahead of us, but you will rise to the challenge. You will honour me, you will make me proud. And you will fight better than any other force on the face of Arda. Just follow your orders, keep your oaths, and nothing in the world will stand against you."

Involuntarily, many of the new soldiers fidgeted with their left hands – that was where the slight cut was made to administer the oath. Symbolic only, but symbols were powerful things.

"Stormwind regiment, dismissed to quarters. First three companies to assemble at the station in two hours."

The newly inaugurated 2nd cavalry regiment raised a short cheer, and then the ordered ranks split cleanly to trot back to quarters.

_I have just added over a thousand more to my army,_ Saruman thought. _And they so willingly follow me._

**You have something which I can analyze but never duplicate, Saruman. But that alone is not sufficient for victory.**

**Observe.**

- and twelve hundred cavalry shook out into line on the ash-plain south of Mount Doom. Rifle fire crashed out in volleys, and the thunder-cloud banner rode on towards Barad-Dur itself…

- and thirty uruks on blown wargs straggled back into camp. One of them slipped out of the saddle, to strike the floor with bone-shattering force…

* * *

><p>With a sound of sodden thunder, ten thousand horses rode wearily up to a train station a little under a hundred kilometres from the rail head.<p>

Theoden swung down from Snowmane almost before the stallion came to a halt, and watched with pride as the Éothéod slowed to a stop. Rearmost companies first, then the rest in turn.

Doing it the other way around could lead to a truly spectacular pileup, as one unit slowed just a little more than the one in front. But it was hard to remember that when you'd been riding for ten hours and your spine ached…

The camp laid out by the Isengard orcs was impressive, as well. A neat grid of company campgrounds, ten by ten, with piles of bedrolls and places to tether and feed the horses. And the odds were fairly good that they were the _same_ bedrolls and other sundry materiel that he'd left behind at yesterday's camp, as well…

This train business was all very convenient, but if it made it possible for anyone to move faster than the Rohirrim, was that a good thing?

_Later_. Theoden shook it off.

"Men of the Riddermark!" he called, putting the power of aged but still firm lungs behind the shout. "You have ridden well this day. Again."

A few snickers came from the otherwise quiet host.

"One more day's hard riding, and the day after that we fight. And there's good news, too, because tomorrow's day of riding is shorter."

The king gave a broad grin, and if most of the riders couldn't see it they could hear the humour in the next sentences. "I'm well aware that some of you think I'm trying to run you so hard you wear away up to the elbows, but there's a good reason for it. First off, some of you lot were so fat when we started I felt sorrier for the _horse_."

That brought a roar of laughter.

"And second," he said, more seriously, "we're riding to the rescue. A greater ride than any since the days of Eorl the Young, across hundreds of miles and with thousands of horse. And while there's no point arriving too exhausted to fight, we'd better at least arrive while there's still a fight to be had."

"That's all. Go get yourselves around some hot food."

A cheer went up, and then the column dissolved into seeming chaos.

"Well," Theodred said, smiling, "I don't know about them, but that sounded good to me!"

Theoden nodded to him. "Thank you. Now, what's _our_ hot food?"

The prince looked around surreptitiously. "Well, I heard that the cook found a shoat…"

"Very good!" Theoden said, nodding. "That should do us nicely."

"Bit of bad news, though," Gamling cut in. "Sorry to interrupt, sire, but it needs to be known. We had a total of twenty who fell out of line, today."

"How bad is it?" Theodred asked, eyes intent.

"Fourteen of them just blew their horses, that's all, most of them in the last couple of hours. They're on the way by train, as I understand it – the next one which stops there to drink, or whatever it is they do. The other six… one broken arm, two broken necks, and three I think were desertions."

Theoden winced. It was a low rate, given how far they were travelling and how large his army, but that made nearly half a company's worth of gradual attrition.

"That's going to make Eowyn's case all the stronger."

"Why not let her?" Theodred asked. "I mean… Eomer is…"

He didn't finish the sentence, uncomfortable at the topic, but Theoden took the meaning anyway. Eowyn had argued both that the honour of the House of Eomund required one of his line fight in the great battle, and that they needed everyone who could fight.

This would make the second argument all the stronger. And that Eomer was well out of danger – unless things went fairly wrong – lessened the risk of having the entire royal house take to the field at the same battle.

"Well, we're not going to make her just forget it if we're late for the meal," he said with a sigh. "Right, come on."

* * *

><p>"And… thirty-two," Ternak said with some satisfaction. "Finally."<p>

Three regiments of cavalry and one of infantry were to form the expeditionary force, and they were each taking eight guns. That meant no fewer than thirty-two of the rifled 75mm field pieces, and over two thousand rounds of artillery ammunition alone. In addition, each regiment had one rapidgun per company – for a total of forty of those – and twelve hundred troopers, which meant near enough to five thousand basic day's fighting loads.

"Alright," the commander said after a moment. "How are we on the caissons?"

"Mostly full," came the reply. "Ten canister, forty shrapnel and thirty contact, I make it?"

"Unless Uglúk tells me otherwise," Ternak answered. " And the caissons with spare ammunition, as well – one per battery. Oh, speaking of which, ask him if we're to need to supply mortar shells as well."

* * *

><p>"My compliments to Ternak, and does he <em>think<em> baseplates can move at cavalry speed?" Uglúk replied irritably. "No, that was harsh of me. Inform him not at present, and to use them to thicken the defences of this forward base."

The big mortars were extremely effective weapons, right enough. They were also extremely _heavy_, most of it in the big baseplate that spread ground pressure and prevented the weapon driving itself into the ground with recoil.

Perhaps a lighter model of mortar would be more effective. Or – and Uglúk's eyes moved over to the platform where a company of the 1st cavalry were detraining – one that could carry a baseplate along with it…

Rails wouldn't do, because they needed to be laid in advance… though that itself raised the idea of an extremely heavy gun that _did_ move on rail tracks. But for one of the mortars, you wouldn't need that kind of carrying capacity. Just a well-braced platform on some kind of rollers or with substantial ground support.

_This merits further consideration. Later._

* * *

><p>"Right, that's the last of the dragoons off," Raza said, saluting whimsically as the train pulled out. "Our lot next?"<p>

"Indeed," Saruman replied. "And myself, as well."

"Sir?" She blinked. "You're coming with us?"

"I need to take to the field at least once, Colonel." The wizard looked old for a moment. "I'm going to ask thousands to fight and die for me. How can I just stand hundreds of miles away and send orders?"

Raza looked uncomfortable. "Not my department, sir."

"I suppose not." He straightened, and the age fell away – leaving only the dignity that accrued with it. "Nevertheless, I am coming. Lugdush can defend the Vale well enough without me, and it is not as though I will be weeks from contact."

The colonel nodded. "Right you are, then, sir. Well, I'll just get the last of those rapidguns loaded on the next train, and then the Disaster's Blade is on the two after."

* * *

><p>Central was silent, but Saruman could feel the cold presence in the back of his mind.<p>

_Anything to say?_

The intelligence appeared to pause for thought. Then:

**It is a strange correlation that those generals who were most successful tended to expose themselves to more danger. To complain would be to hamper the very reason you are of such use.**

_It isn't strange at all._

Saruman started for the stables, to turn out Huan and make sure he was ready for the long journey.

_After all, soldiers aren't pieces on a board. And I for one find myself seeking ways to remind myself of that._

* * *

><p>"Current line strength one thousand, ninety-two," Tureg finished unhappily. "That's including over a hundred walking wounded. Seriously wounded comes to seventeen who'll live, and that puts total deaths from the fighting here at one hundred fifteen."<p>

The numbers didn't match with the book strength of the Blood and Steel, twelve hundred even, but that was because a number of the casualties from the battle had been in the support companies.

"Understood." Marek closed his eyes for a moment. "Are we ready to move out?"

"With the dawn." Tureg nodded. "And no need to dismantle a camp, either."

"So order it, then." Marek said. "And get the crows searching for that Dalesmen army. I don't fancy fighting a force much larger than that one we beat without support."

He turned to the baron. "Good work, sir."

"My thanks," Uldonovan replied. There was a cut on his face, but he didn't seem to care. "Harried them all day, and then hit the biggest group by night. I don't think they'll be coming back all season!"

"We did good work here." Marek shook his hand. "And I hope to see you in less troubled times."

"A mutual sentiment, Colonel," the baron nodded. "Now, get going! My hopes and our gratitude go with you."

Marek turned to go, then turned back. "Actually, there's something I almost forgot. I was meaning to leave our most severely wounded – those who can't keep with the marching column, in the main – and two medics, along with some of our medical supplies. Would you..?"

"Of course." Uldonovan spread his arms wide. "I can hardly begrudge you bed and board for a few dozen wounded soldiers in return for saving my town – and for providing medical attention, if they have time spare."

Marek smiled, glad that matter was resolved.

"Oh, and colonel?" The baron added, causing the uruk to pause. "It's Durkon Endermas of Uldonovan. I just realized that I never told you."

"Well, now I know what to put on my letters." The colonel grinned. "By gods, but I never realized how close working with another man could make you."

"I'll anticipate the first." Durkon offered his fist to clasp, and Marek returned it. "To victory, for the Crown and for your Saruman – and damnation to Rhûn!"

* * *

><p>"What I wouldn't give for a field gun…" Lurtz muttered, gazing through his telescope at the Mordor positions to the east of Cair Andros.<p>

They were quite a long way out. The first day had taught the Men and Orcs a healthy respect for the range of a Recon trooper's Isen, and just as much for Legolas.

The Mordor forces' reaction had been seriously hampered by the lack of their commander, slain by Legolas when their coup de main failed, and it wasn't until today that they'd really got their siege equipment started. Clumsy stuff – with the water of the Anduin river acting as a natural moat, covered rams or siege towers were nearly useless, so it was small tree-trunk rams and ladders for the most part – but with a rather large pair of catapults at the centre of it.

"What do you think they're going for?" Aragorn asked, seemingly idly.

"Well, if I were them…" Lurtz considered. "Not much point trying to batter the walls down, it'd take boats to launch a direct assault and they have to know my sharpshooters would kill anyone trying to steer the things. No, I'd go for a general assault all along the walls, using showers of one-kilo rocks to keep the defenders' heads down, and hope that to react to that would be to weaken the gatehouse too much."

"Entirely possible," Aragorn agreed readily. "But I'm more wondering what they might plan to do with their sorcerors. We know they have at least two left."

Lurtz nodded. A pity; maybe if they'd held their fire they might have induced the mages into rifle range. But no use worrying about it now.

"My particular worry," the king-in-waiting mused, "is that they might have some way to empower the rocks and hence smite the gatehouse directly."

"From what I know, that's very taxing on the mage…" Lurtz scowled, "not that any of them are going to care much about their own lives anyway. That sounds entirely too plausible for my liking."

"Well," Aragorn said, shrugging. "At least there's no way those things can throw big rocks _and_ sweep the battlements, so we'll know what their plan is in advance."

"Yeah, because that's a great advantage…" Lurtz chuckled. "Seriously, though, I still want that field gun. From up here it would outrange those catapults, and probably dash the crew to pieces as well."

Aragorn looked disquieted for a moment, probably imagining such a weapon used as field artillery.

* * *

><p>Raza stretched and yawned as the train slowed. "We there?"<p>

"No," her number three said, looking out the window. "I've been counting stops. I think this is a refuelling stop."

"Actually, that shouldn't surprise me…" she nodded. "Not like we were going to get all the way to the base camp in less than half a day."

Saruman and her second-in-command were both on the other train, about fifteen minutes behind their one and stopping to refuel and rewater one stop back. It was to make sure no single accident could decapitate the entire regiment… though if something happened to that train behind her, then Isengard would be _screwed_.

A faint sound drifted into the front compartment, where the commanding officers – colonel, three battalion majors, and the company captains of the line and support companies, together with sundry others – were riding.

"Is that…" Raza paused, listening. "Yes, I think it is."

_"Where have you been this while away,  
>Johnnie, Johnnie?"<br>'Long with the rest on a picnic lay,  
>Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!<br>They called us out of the barrack-yard  
>To Gawd knows where from Isengard,<br>And you can't refuse when you get the card,  
>And the Wizard gives the party.<em>

"Their temper's up, actually," one of the company captains ventured. "It's all sort of ironic, I suppose – they trust the Lord Wizard."

"They're not wrong there!" Raza slapped him on the back. "Is that going on all down the train?"

"Not sure," Major Erken shrugged, "But they were an hour ago when we could hear 'Troopin' through the door. I checked."

_"What did you get to eat and drink,  
>Johnnie, Johnnie?"<br>Standing water as thick as ink,  
>Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!<br>A bit o' beef that were three year stored,  
>A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,<br>And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,  
>When the Wizard give the party.<em>

"Mind you," he added, "an attempt to get the Lay of Beren and Lúthien going did fall rather flat. It's just too long."

Raza flashed a grin at him. "I've tried to read it, when Lurtz pressed it on me. Goodness, but that was tricky to get through."

_"What did you do for knives and forks,  
>Johnnie, Johnnie?"<br>We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,  
>Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!<br>And some was sliced and some was halved,  
>And some was crimped and some was carved,<br>And some was gutted and some was starved,  
>When the Wizard give the party!<em>

* * *

><p>Hundreds of miles to the north, a different infantry regiment was singing more or less the same song as they marched to the confluence of two rivers, there to meet a large Dalesman army and make for Dorwinion.<p>

_"What ha' you done with half your mess,  
>Johnnie, Johnnie?"<br>They couldn't do more and they wouldn't do less,  
>Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!<br>They ate their whack and they drank their fill,  
>And I think the rations has made them ill,<br>For half my comp'ny's lying still  
>Where the Wizard give the party.<em>

"That's an exaggeration, of course," Tureg said unnecessarily. In fact, while the words were gloomy, the Blood and Steel were quite happy. The prospect of another hard march was met with the stoicism expected from soldiers who'd done it before, the idea of a hard fight with the steadiness of line troops who were now veterans to a man – and who would have substantially more backing, the next time.

_"How did you get away - away,  
>Johnnie, Johnnie?"<br>On the broad o' my back at the end o' the day,  
>Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!<br>I comed away like a bleedin' toff,  
>For I got four others to carry me off,<br>As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,  
>When the Wizard give the party.<em>

"I know it is," Marek replied, gauging the mood of his regiment. They were his weapon, now, as surely as the revolver or the sabre – and he knew the weight and mettle of this excellent blade.

A glance up at the colours fluttering proudly at the head of the column confirmed it, with the three newly sewn battle honours.

Nurunkhizdin. The river. Uldonovan.

The kind of thing which made a force _far_ more effective than numbers alone would suggest.

He laughed, and then joined in the last verse.

_ "What was the end of all the show,  
>Johnnie, Johnnie?"<br>Ask my Colonel, for I don't know,  
>Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!<br>We broke a horde and we built a road -  
>A tumbled wall where the reg'ment goed.<br>And the streets are clean where the raw blood flowed  
>When the Wizard give the party!<em>

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

Once more, that marching song is cribbed from Rudyard Kipling.

Also, as is probably evident, I'm keying up for the Pelennor Fields. Should be interesting.


	10. Chapter 10

Saruman strode purposefully off the train in the gathering gloom, and quickly spotted Raza – still organizing the materiel left from the earlier train now on an adjacent platform.

"Colonel. No rest for the infantry, I'm afraid; or not much, at any rate. You're to head south, setting off…" he frowned. "Let's say eleven this evening. I hope many of your soldiers snatched sleep on the train, because they won't have all that much opportunity for it."

"I certainly did," Raza said, her voice belying slight nervousness. "Not sure about the rest of them…"

"Well, needs must. I can push back to midnight, but not further – scouts are going to make the journey ahead of you, but it's important that we be through the gate by dawn."

Raza understood. "Right. You want to have time to get through the wooded belt?"

"That's it exactly; a besieging army that large will be substantially unwieldy, but nevertheless we need to defeat them in the morning or afternoon, to allow for a full pursuit by the Rohirrim."

The colonel saluted. "Right you are, sir. I'll give the orders. Clear run to the gate?"

"Fairly so, or at least that's the last report from the crows – they didn't see anything but a few refugees on the north side of the wall."

"That's good news, then."

She waited a moment more, then headed to her regiment.

* * *

><p>"Here's where we are," Saruman said, pointing at a square marked on one end of a large map. The whole thing was laid out on top of a folding table. "You'll notice that we're about two hours – at cavalry speed – from the gates, though I'd prefer to allow three in order that the artillery not be required to move too fast."<p>

Théoden scanned the map. "This is very useful, I must say. Now, what about the enemy?"

"Straight to the point, I see…" Saruman indicated Osgiliath. "This is their crossing point for the Anduin. They took it around a week ago, and have moved across a very large main body as well as a number of secondary forces."

A crow flapped down to land on his shoulder, and spoke into his ear. Saruman nodded gravely and began marking points with a pencil. "This is the extent of their main body." A crescent with the open side facing the city of Minas Tirith, at a distance of around a third of a mile. "There are siege towers being assembled at narrow spacings, and we can assume that they will launch their assault at daybreak. Bombardment of the city is already taking place, from catapults roughly in this line."

This was close to the frontal edge of the crescent, barely six hundred metres from the city. "They are at long but not extreme range for their own fire, and the trebuchets mounted at various points along the towers of the city are returning fire as possible – though I believe they are reserving fire until daybreak."

Théoden pointed to a break in the catapult line. "What is that?"

"That is where they appear to be moving into position an enormous ram, pulled by Yurgs and pushed by dozens of trolls. It is named _Grond_ for the hammer of Morgoth, and I believe their plan is to breach the gate with it."

The king of Rohan absorbed that information.

Saruman went on. "Their main body numbers approximately one hundred and thirty thousand."

There were a few gasps, but by now the scale of the problem was fairly well known anyway.

"Blocking forces are here, here and here." Three irregular blobs, one near each of the three gates to the Pelennor – north, east and south. "Each of them is approximately ten thousand, though spread out and not precisely their best troops. We hope to punch through the northern blocking force early in the day, and come upon the flank of the main Mordor army."

He paused. "In addition, some orcs are garrisoned in Osgiliath itself, but their numbers are much harder to determine. That is for later."

"What of the rest of their army?" Theodred asked.

"You want more?" Gamling asked, and Theodred punched him companionably on the shoulder.

"An important question, yes." Saruman pointed to the extensive docklands south of Osgiliath. "Large numbers of ships from Umbar are rowing up the river, and will reach these docks within a few hours of dawn. They carry a number of Umbaran militia and irregulars in addition to their regular crews, and I believe they are to be used to aid in the fighting within Minas Tirith."

Hama looked like he wanted to spit. "Corsairs! Worthless rabble. Some of them raided the westernmost marches of Rohan four years back."

Then he looked a bit more cheerful. "They can't hold worth a damn in the face of a charge, though."

"Indeed. We can consider them to be relatively ineffective in open field battle, which is most helpful."

Saruman then indicated the final area of pencil marks. "This is our largest concern. Around four thousand Haradrim raider cavalry – skilled at bow and lance work, though lightly armoured – and twenty-three Mûmakil."

There was a hush.

"We can handle the Oliphaunts," Mauhúr said with a grin. "You Rohirrim should deal with the corsairs and handle pursuit of the orcs – we'll keep those bloody great monsters off your backs!"

"Accurate…" Saruman commented lightly. "Though I think we can certainly help with the initial clash with the orcs as well."

"That's a relief," Théoden admitted. "We were willing to give it a go, but that many soldiers… even if they were a rabble, it would be like trying to swat a swarm of bees. Too many for us to fight. And if they formed a pike wall…"

"We'd break a pike wall!" Theodred said firmly. "We'd shatter it, for Rohan and for our fathers!"

"And all too many of us would die in the doing." Théoden replied, keeping the rebuke gentle. "Now, I assume there is more to this meeting?"

"There is." Saruman gestured Ternak forwards. "We have made preparations for food and spare spears and arrows. Ternak can say more."

"Indeed." Ternak pointed to a point between the fringe of orchards and the flat plains of Pelennor proper. "This area's screened by a low ridge. It seems like the best place to form up properly before advancing, and to make sure everyone's well fed. We…"

The discussion went on for hours. It was still going on when Raza's regiment, the Disaster's Blade, roused from a short sleep and marched south.

* * *

><p>"Scouts still report nothing, Colonel."<p>

"Very good, Captain…" Raza replied, somewhat distantly. "Bring up the grapnels, we'll try to do this quietly. Second company to the wall."

The indicated unit moved forward by bounding overwatch, despite the lack of enemy action – as yet. Each platoon had one squad with weapons searching the battlements of Rammas Echor for signs of movement – hostile, most likely.

It took them about five minutes to reach the wall proper, and by that point it was light enough that they could see roughly what they were doing – though it was still an hour short of dawn.

Raza imagined she could hear the clunks of metal on stone as the grapnels reached the peak of the wall, but at a distance of over a quarter of a mile that was unlikely. Probably just nerves…

A lantern flashed from the top of the wall.

One of the lieutenants in the command group began translating. "Tower… empty… winch… operational…"

"No need, I can read it," Raza said absently. "Send _open the gate_ to them, and then have the rest of the regiment move back onto the road and through."

That same lieutenant opened the shutter on a bulls-eye lantern and flashed the message.

As the Disaster's Blade began moving back into formation, their attached company of scouts moved forward in loose order and passed through the opening gate to screen their advance.

* * *

><p>"Got them," a crow reported. "The majority of them are in a small town to the south of here – there are a number of burning buildings and many orcs lying around asleep or drunk."<p>

"Must have eaten everything edible, smashed the rest and burned the town…" Raza said, taking out a map and examining it by the gathering light of dawn. "Right, we only really need to give these bastards a bloody nose – if they're formed, they might get ideas about a flank attack on the march column, but if they run for it…"

She paused. "No, never mind. Deploy the first and third battalions in line along the road – loose order. I don't want a continuous line, I want a series of strongpoints close enough to offer mutual support."

"Sir?"

"Well, they're in no bloody shape to interdict the road now, are they?" she asked, rhetorically. "If they do get ideas about doing their job, then we'll slap them down hard, but there's always the chance they might get off some runners to the Mordor main force. I'll check in with the Lord Wizard, but I plan on waiting until our army's past and _then_ assaulting the town."

She turned to the crow. "So appraise Saruman, if you would be so kind."

* * *

><p>The first thing to come into sight was the outriders, squads of scouts combing the line of march for possible dangers and danger zones. Many of them were working in direct coordination with the air recon, hunting down potential contacts on the ground and either confirming them to be clear or dispatching them.<p>

Often they used bows or cold steel, rather than gunfire. Rifle shots carried.

Then-

There was a low rumble as twelve hundred wargs beat the road, their paws in near-perfect unison at a fast trot and moving four abreast along the road. Following them was their regimental artillery and rapidguns, moving at the same speed – not precisely safe, but entirely doable over short or medium distances and on a good road.

Behind them came a brigade of Rohirrim, numbering a little over three thousand. Some of the horses were a bit nervous in the presence of so many predators, but the previous evening had started the acclimatization process and they weren't _too_ concerned.

For their part, the Men of Rohan were keeping reasonably good order. Some of them hadn't been on a march in years before the long run down from Edoras, but that in itself had provided a valuable refresher course. They were mostly keeping to the road – a thin layer of packed earth on top of an old stone course, this close to Minas Tirith – and stretched for most of a mile in spite of being six abreast.

The same pattern repeated itself two more times, and took almost half an hour to go by. At the back of the line was a slightly more chaotic group of wagons and pannier-wargs with the additional supplies that might be needed, and the medical corps.

A few particularly hardy camp followers from the Rohan muster were still keeping with the column, often on palfreys or riding in carts, but at the gentle insistence of Skara's medics had made themselves useful somehow.

* * *

><p>Raza's personal targets hadn't noticed the column – which made them piss-poor flank guards, in her mind – but she held her fire until a crow arrived with a message from the south.<p>

"The assault on the city has begun," he said simply.

"Good." She exhaled, looking over the Disaster's Blade in their start lines.

They'd crept closer as the column passed, and meticulously ranged their artillery to the extent that was possible without ranging shots. By now, her gunline was about two thousand metres from the town centre and her artillery was about five hundred metres further back than that.

"On the word of command, begin shelling the town. Mix of shrapnel and contact."

The battery commander nodded and relayed the order. "Three round stonk, shrapnel, standard rate, then switch to impact!"

She frowned, then understood. He was interpreting her orders into something that could be more easily carried out, and which would fulfil the same tasks.

Though it might be best to have a word with him about that later. When she gave an order, there might be reasons behind it that _weren't_ immediately obvious.

* * *

><p>There was a succession of <em>poumfs<em> from the field guns, firing in a staggered salvo to make the fall of shot more clear. The sound of them would carry, but by delaying the attack until an hour after sunrise the sheer din of the assault on Minas Tirith would mask the distant sounds of gunfire.

The shrapnel burst over a town mostly full of orcs, either sleeping off the night's looting and burning or awake and getting ready to return to duty. With so many rounds slashing into the main open spaces, hundreds of orcs went down and the rest scattered, running for cover or for the open.

Cover was no shield, either. Though a prosperous town, the vast majority of the place was built half-timbered or brick – and, within two minutes as the contact rounds went in, the buildings started to slump or burn.

* * *

><p>"Aule, but that's good shooting…" Raza muttered, gazing through her telescope. "Wait-"<p>

She snapped her fingers as an alert signal. "Air recon, check this – it looks like most of them are already fleeing!"

That was an exaggeration, she knew even as she said it – with the gathering smoke, both from the gunline behind her and on the other end of the barrage where shells detonated, she couldn't see nearly enough to call it _most_ of the orc division. But there were certainly orcs running for it everywhere she _could_ see.

Thinking about it, it wasn't surprising. Assaults on well defended cities were a complete bear at the best of times, so the Mordor commander would want all his best troops there – and it was early for even cavalry to be attacking the vulnerable northern flank, so the troops wouldn't be really expecting a relief column.

Let alone Isengard artillery as they awoke.

"We've got a chance to push them out of the town…" the Major commanding 1 Battalion said aloud.

"No, I won't waste good soldiers on this rabble," Raza replied. "2 Battalion to act as rearguard – keep the rapidguns handy, but rely mostly on marksman work unless there's a concerted rush. The remainder of the regiment is to return to column."

As her subordinates moved into action, Raza took a second look over everything. "Good. Now, battery commander? A minor matter…"

* * *

><p>Hundreds of arrows sleeted down from the top of Minas Tirith's first wall. For the most part, they were aimed at the trolls or orcs pushing siege towers. Minas Tirith's wall was so high as to make ladder escalade extremely difficult – though not impossible – and Faramir knew that their arrow supply was limited.<p>

More limited than the number of orcs, at any rate. It would be sufficient to stop them reaching the walls.

Another siege tower ground to a halt as the troll pushing it stumbled and collapsed. The cry went up, and two of the nearer trebuchet diverted their effort to the stationary – hence, vulnerable – target.

There was a ragged cheer as one of the large rocks hit home, sending splinters the size of an arm flying in all directions. A second rock finished it off.

"Faramir!" came a shout. The Captain turned to see his brother pointing south. "The gate! There's the biggest bloody ram I've ever seen!"

Faramir took a moment to assess the situation. "Beregond, take over here! I'm taking the Blackroot archers and the fourth district lot!"

"Aye, sir!"

The indicated companies of archers followed him at a jog as he hurried south. Boromir turned and began to run himself as the party approached, then slowed to match speed with Faramir. "Only archers?"

"Well, if that ram makes it through the gate then we're all fucked no matter what," Faramir replied through his teeth, "and that means killing whatever's pushing it. I'd guess-"

"Trolls, exactly."

By the time the brothers got there, Gondorian archers firing their powerful bows had swept the ram's upper works and cleared out some orcish defensive archers, and were aiming at the trolls pushing the ram.

A steady chant could be heard. _Grond. Grond. Grond._

"Isn't that a hammer?" Faramir asked with a grunt, drawing his bow to full extension as his reinforcements began to fire.

Boromir copied him and loosed his own arrow. "What do you expect from orcs, eh?"

There was a clatter of feet, and then a _Crack_ that was loud even over the din of battle.

Both brothers looked to their right. "Graz?"

With a fixed expression on his face, the lieutenant extracted a casing from his Isen and fed in the next – a brass-tipped round. "Couldn't let you have-" _Crack_ "-all the fun, could I?"

He pulled out three rounds this time, putting them in his mouth with bullets innermost so as to be ready to hand. With the next _crack_, a troll fell with a gaping wound in its eye.

Thinking about it, Faramir understood – most of it, he thought.

Graz wanted to do something, because not doing anything was intolerable. And this was where he could do the most good.

Another troll went down. Graz worked the bolt mechanically, slotted in the next, fired – then cursed, coughing as he inhaled more gunsmoke than he had been, and reached for a knife to dig at the extraction jam.

"Nazgúl!" someone shouted, by the accent a Blackroot Vale lad, then screamed as he was bowled over the wall by a slamming impact.

Graz dove for the floor, nearly getting tangled in his rifle sling, and the shard-knife he was holding dug into his thigh. He saw stars as the back of his head struck a raised flagstone.

There were screams, and a crunch as a trebuchet was torn to bits at the other end of the wall. Through the shock, Graz could see the big wings of the fell-beast as it executed a low wingover and turned for another run.

Rolling, he shook his head to try and clear the fog, and considered pulling the knife out.

_Best to leave it in,_ he decided after a moment. Without a medic or at least someone to put on a pressure dressing, he didn't want to risk losing too much blood – and if he yanked it out now, he might well bite his own tongue off.

The revolver was in a holster on his left thigh – the rifle went at his right. Kicking the rifle away and disentangling his feet, the lieutenant knelt and lifted the revolver. He might get a good shot or two.

Three would be much less likely.

The sight picture wavered, and he became aware of panting. It took a moment for the realization to penetrate the shock – that was his own racing breath.

Time slowed, and everything looked like it was under water. The gun kicked-

Kicked-

And something snatched it out of his hands, nearly spinning him around to fall over. A hideous screech blasted from behind him, coming close to putting him out cold where the blow to the head had failed.

Then the thunder of two more revolvers, emptying their cylinders in seconds.

* * *

><p>Faramir knelt next to the Isengard soldier. "Are you alright?"<p>

Graz didn't reply. His eyes were dilated unnaturally, but they seemed to be returning to normal… so there was a chance it wasn't a major concussion.

The Ranger moved quickly. Picking up a sword belt from a dead Gondorian swordsman – killed by one of the first volleys – he slipped the leather of the belt between Graz's teeth, and then pulled the knife out of his leg. Another man, an archer, put a bandage over the gash and pressed hard.

There was no great rush of blood, so it looked like it had missed the femoral artery.

That taken care of, Faramir looked up and his eyes widened.

Somehow, he'd missed a fight taking place not thirty yards away. The form of the fell-beast lay thrashing half on the wall and half in the cleared space behind it, and thick dark blood oozed from terrible wounds all over its head.

Above it, Boromir stood panting with his sword drawn and an empty revolver by his feet.

And Gandalf the Grey had a shining sword in one hand, a staff in the other, and likewise a revolver by his boots. Between them, a sizzling remnant of a black cloak boiled into nothingness.

"…by Elendil's throne…" Faramir whispered, working out what must have happened. One or another of the revolver bullets brainshot the fell beast, which crashed, and then between them his brother and Gandalf killed the ancient monster that rode it.

The gate! With a start, he took two quick steps to the wall and looked out. The great ram, Grond, was about a hundred feet back from the gates themselves, and all the trolls around it were dead or dying.

"We hold the gate, for now," Gandalf said, walking up to the wall himself. "It will take them time to organize a rush to force the ram closer."

He looked between the brothers. "I suggest you see to the walls, those siege towers are still approaching and we have fewer trebuchet now. I will take Graz to the houses of healing, to receive what care he can."

* * *

><p>The Flameseekers (1st Dragoons) reached the edge of the wooded perimeter to Pelennor and turned to the left, staying in column of fours for now as they headed out to form the eastern flank of the combined army.<p>

This tactical evolution was relatively simple in concept, but as always it was the drill that made it possible to execute as a fluid group – of twelve hundred mounted troopers and a large attached artillery battery.

Behind them, better than three thousand Rohirrim debouched onto the plain. With less formal training in drill, they were less neat, but Rohan cavalry tactics were sufficiently standardized that they all knew more or less what to do anyway.

According to the plan, the Men of Rohan drifted west as they rode and began to deploy from column into their line of battle – one Éored as the front rank, and the same width maintained all the way back.

Gamling looked back at the growing cloud of dust. Sooner or later, the orcs had to notice _something_ was up… but they had their own force out this way, after all.

"Just give us another half an hour…" he muttered. Well, the sounds of the assault were faintly audible even here – perhaps they'd stay fixated on it for long enough.

The final éored of his brigade cantered into formation, and the Isengard Stormwind regiment (2nd cavalry) followed. To make sure the whole force would be ready as soon as possible, the extreme flank elements were first.

This would be tricky. They were alternating Isengard-Rohan-Isengard-Rohan along the front, with three Isengard regiments and three Rohirrim brigades, but since the Isengard regiments had to deploy in line for maximum effectiveness the less numerous troopers took up a huge chunk of the total frontage.

Well, Gamling had his orders, and he would do his level best to execute them.

* * *

><p><em>How are we doing?<em> Saruman thought, as a tremble ran through the ranks of Grimbold's brigade and they began entering the plain.

Central didn't reply verbally at first, instead painting holographic images in front of Saruman's eyes.

As far as the wizard understood it, Central was taking all the information that was potentially available to Saruman – whether it was a wealth of detail from a brief glance, or an understanding of the reactions of a man from five seconds of study, or sounds that he could not consciously hear – combining that with what he knew, and synthesizing it into a single picture.

The Flameseekers were already near their start lines, and splitting from column of fours into ten company columns as a prelude to deploying into line. Stormwind was less far along, but still well within schedule. And the Rohirrim…

Well, they knew their business, and it seemed as though they would do fine.

**Observe**.

Grimbold's brigade on the move, or more specifically his front éored. One of the Riders seemed slightly out of place compared to the rest of them – not incompetent, just less used to the otherwise fluid coordination of warriors experienced with working together.

The Rider froze along with the rest of the image, and a grid appeared on his face. Next to it Central placed a similar grid on the face of…

_Really?_ Saruman asked, surprised.

**97% +/- 1% correlation.**

**Observe**.

Saruman recognized the location quickly – it was late evening in the rail head camp. The wargs were barking as their mash was served, and stevedores were swarming around the platform under bright light, but most of the camp was settling in for the night.

Grimbold of Grimslade took Éowyn aside. "Look here, miss. Your uncle won't let you ride with the host – if you push it, he'll ban you from going."

Éowyn looked rebellious, and he shook his head. "It's because he loves you, you know. He's already come too close to losing his nephew – he won't risk you as well."

Grimbold winked at her. "But, well, I always had a weakness for sprightly lasses. Come on, what he doesn't know won't hurt him… ride with my éored, we're one short."

"Thank you!" she said, only just remembering to pitch her voice low and prevent it carrying.

The Third Marshal offered his hand in a warrior's clasp, and she matched it.

"I won't let you down."

**Éowyn is more capable than most men. On the flank she will likely not be recognized.**

Saruman sighed. _Well, it can't be helped. And with my own army…_

Raza was the prime example, of course, but there were several female officers and line troopers amongst the Army of the Hand. A small fraction, but there nevertheless.

Huan stumbled on a loose stone, jerking Saruman out of his reverie, but recovered quickly and whined an apology.

* * *

><p>Gothmog scowled. "What happened? Grond was nearly to the walls-"<p>

With a slam of foul air, a fell beast dropped from the sky to land next to his warg. There was a panicked scurry to get out of the way, disordering the neat ranks of that regiment, and the monster bent its flexible neck to worry at the carcass of one of those who had not escaped being crushed.

The general bowed, seeing his superior and avatar of Sauron's will. "Witch-King of Angmar."

The empty crown turned slowly to look at him, and despite himself the tough commander stepped back.

_"One of our number is destroyed,"_ came the hissing voice of a man many centuries dead.

"How?" For Gothmog, surprise overcame fear. "Are not the Nine immortal?"

_"So it was thought. But the Grey is here."_

The grey. Gandalf. Mithrandir.

That name held more than a touch of dread for any orc, especially since he had destroyed the Great Goblin with the legendary blade Glamdring.

Swallowing, Gothmog nodded. "I understand."

_"See that you do."_ The Witch-King did not speak for a moment. _"Take the city at all costs. If you have not taken the gates when Suladân arrives, I will kill you and he will succeed where you have failed."_

"Right. _Right._" Nearly forgetting himself, the orcish commander made to turn away – then froze, fear of the disrespect he had nearly shown turning his blood to ice.

The greatest of the Nine faced him for another moment, then turned to look towards Minas Tirith. _"Go."_

He couldn't get out of there fast enough.

* * *

><p>"Send in the next wave," Gothmog ordered, scowling. "Take half the trolls manning the catapults and attach them to the troll strike force; send them in to retake Grond after the second wave has swept the wall. Switch the remaining catapults – all that will bear – to bombard the area of the gate. And any siege engineers who strike Grond will be <em>impaled!<em>"

He forcefully clamped down on his racing heart. "Move forward all the siege ladders, as well. We _must_ get a lodgement over the wall – by Grond or by ladder."

Another siege tower collapsed as a huge rock smashed into it, and he snarled with futile rage.

* * *

><p>The combined army by now had a formation that was a little like a series of crenelations on a battlement. The three Isengard regiments, though only a quarter of the total manpower of the force, occupied the lion's share of the frontage simply because they had to be deployed in a line of battle.<p>

The Rohirrim in each brigade were in their usual strike formation – one Éored wide, a frontage of one hundred and twenty men with only about a foot between the boots of one soldier and those on either side. The plan was for them to expand outwards after they passed the gunline when charging, though nobody expected it to work perfectly.

Saruman looked back and forth along the line. Central projected a holographic map of the dispositions as seen from the air, and he studied it for a moment.

"King Théoden?" he murmured, "it might be best to give your speech now."

Théoden nodded, then frowned. "Will they all hear me?"

"Yes." Saruman raised his staff, and Théoden grimaced.

"Magic… still unnerves me when I see it." He shrugged it off, and flourished his sword. "Men of the Riddermark!"

* * *

><p>Kerku didn't pay much attention to Théoden's speech, being too busy organizing his regiment.<p>

"No, no, the rapidguns go to the front! You can push them at a trot, I'm sure, they're not exactly heavy and you've got spare crew – use them! Guns stay limbered up for now – you're going to deploy at the hillcrest. Shrapnel fire only, as well – work out the fuzes yourself, but we certainly don't want craters…"

"Line?"

"Single mounted," Kerku replied. "And no reserve." Trumpet calls relayed it down the line.

That was a risk, but this whole battle plan was a calculated risk. They had to _smash_ the main siege force before it was reinforced, and that meant as much firepower as possible.

Théoden's speech concluded, drawing roars of approval from his assembled vassals and warriors, and Kerku toed his mount to his place at the centre of the line.

Saruman's voice sounded out next. As opposed to the firey tone Théoden had used, Saruman's speech had a certain elemental simplicity.

"Before you is an army that thinks itself ready for anything," he said, quietly despite the magic enhancing his voice. "Let us show them how wrong they are. For the white hand!"

Trumpets sounded. _Forward march_ and _at the walk._

Thirty-six hundred wargs moved forward, one measured pace at a time. The three regimental lines were as steady as if drawn with a ruler, as they advanced up the last of the reverse slope and onto the crest at last.

* * *

><p>Gothmog looked north as the sound of trumpets reached his ears. <em>How-<em>

It didn't seem possible. Rohan's capital was over _five hundred miles away_. And he had a blocking force in place, as well! How they could still be in fit shape to fight-

That didn't matter. Clearly they were, or they wouldn't be coming on at all – let alone like this, in brazen open order.

Though there was something off about that formation, as it cleared the hill-crests…

No, worry about that later.

"Form ranks!" he shouted, spurring over to the right flank. "Right third reform facing north! Form ranks, pike hedge and archers! Central third to act as reserve to the right, left flank move up to press the assault on the city!"

Already, thirty thousand or more of his force were engaged with Minas Tirith – dead, dying, trying to force the walls, or just in units shattered by the press of combat and recuperating. He couldn't use them.

But even with a third in reserve and another third elsewhere, that still gave him a right flank alone with more than three times the _total possible_ muster of the Rohirrim.

The horse-lords were showing their inexperience, too. By coming on slowly, they were giving him a chance to restructure his formation into one designed specifically to defend against cavalry.

A dense line, six deep and four thousand wide, formed of armoured pikemen with their weapons braced in the ground. Such a line would mean any cavalry would simply drive their horses onto the blades of the pikes – and many of the pikes had boar-spear style crossbars, intended to stop a charging animal from running right up the length of the pike to kill the user.

Couple that with the simple psychological impact of the brandished spears, and the horses themselves would not want to charge. And, so frightened, they would melt away under the fire of his twelve thousand archers firing volleys to create a beaten ground.

So, at least, went the theory. But just in case his line was less than impervious, the central block was already forming as well. This one stayed split into regiments, which would give fugitives from the first line a place to fall back through and rally.

Gothmog kicked, beat, shouted, cuffed and cursed his orc infantry into a close pike hedge, trying to instill into them the courage and fear – fear of him, not the enemy – that would make them hold their position.

Then he looked back at the hill.

* * *

><p>More trumpets blew. The ten field guns following behind each regiment swung smoothly to the left, unhitching from the caisson and turning to face the enemy from their ridgeline position.<p>

Gunners clanged open breechblocks, slotted in their first rounds and made the field pieces ready to fire, meticulously adjusting their elevation.

Another order. The wargs knelt – not in unison, but close – and their riders stepped off, rifles coming out of their sheaths and to the port. They continued the advance at the same walking pace, dressing their lines as they did, and the wargs picked up their reins in their mouths before following on behind.

The rapidgun crews had a little more trouble braking their weapons as they moved down the slick grass of the shallow hillside, but the relatively low weights involved lent themselves to control.

At nine hundred metres, more trumpet calls went up. The troopers stayed at their measured walk, but brought their weapons up. There was a great clacking sound as they loaded.

Eight hundred metres.

_Halt. Kneeling._

The rifles came up like the teeth of a giant comb, pointing upwards at a surprisingly steep angle at such a long range.

_Aim._

A minute individual quiver went down the line, as everyone picked their target as best they could.

* * *

><p>Saruman nodded to an aide, who snapped a striker by the touch paper of a rocket.<p>

With a sputtering hiss, the rocket went soaring skywards, and burst in a little puffball of white stars.

* * *

><p><em>BAM.<em>

Three thousand, six hundred 11mm rifles fired in what was as close to unison as reasonably possible, sending jets of flame-cored smoke stabbing out to the south.

800m was long range, against anything but a stationary target… if it were man sized. But the downside of a pike hedge such as the one Gothmog had quite correctly adopted was that it was a large, dense block of close ordered soldiers.

That meant that a bullet which missed by two feet would hit the orc standing next to the one who had been aimed at. And that made the pike hedge a _perfect_ target. Perhaps as many as a thousand orcs died in that frozen instant, dead from bullets to the head or to the chest, or sent into fatal shock by bullets to the shoulder or the belly or the arm.

On the heels of that first volley came the massed fire of thirty Anduin field guns, louder and deeper sounds that the ear could distinguish individually.

Seven of the shells undershot, sending their deadly cargo across empty grass and mud. Five more overshot, flaying the archers in their more widely spaced ranks behind the pike hedge. Another two burst too soon, the canister balls losing much of their velocity with the resistance of the air, and one simply failed to burst at all.

But half of them, fifteen 75mm shrapnel shells, were targeted and fuzed perfectly.

Where the rifles had punched down a tithe of the front rank, the shrapnel cut holes through the entire dense formation – front to back. Orcs lay bleeding and dying, or slumped against still-living friends and comrades.

For a moment, that was it. And then, having taken five paces forwards and left their own powder-smoke, the rifles fired again.

* * *

><p>In the moment that the second rifle volley crashed out, Gothmog knew his army was doomed.<p>

He'd known that the hope of carrying the city on the first day was lost as soon as the Rohirrim arrived, but these other warriors – mounted infantry of some kind – with their terrible, sorcerous weapons… they had the range, the power and the rate of fire to pick him to shreds from out of any range he could reply.

But doomed or not, he could still salvage something from the ruins.

"Right flank – hold your position! All hail Sauron, Lord of the Rings, Lord of the World!"

Those around him took up the chant, and it spread quickly. Even with the strange weapons flaying his front line, thought of their great master Sauron kept them firmly in line.

Awe and fear, in equal measure.

"Central force," he said, moving south away from the hell of the right flank, "loose order – spread out! Don't make such a good target! Courier to the left flank – withdraw to the southern gate of the wall! Leave the artillery and siege gear, it'll only slow us down! Trolls – muster the remaining trolls, call back any you can from the assault, we'll need them forming a reserve against cavalry attack!"

Orders rolled out of his mouth, reordering his army for retreat, and behind him the right flank died in place to buy him time.

Something was moving to the east, something high up with a swaying motion. _Fucking Haradrim!_ Too bloody late to do him any good, except as a spoiling attack.

They'd probably attack anyway, but he pointed to another courier. "Order to the Serpent Lord – attack the Rohirrim! Destroy them utterly!"

The sleek black warg dashed off at a dead gallop.

Then came a heartening screech, the hunting call of a Nazgúl. Two of them on their great fell beasts swept overhead, spreading to break the line of the newcomers and attack their artillery.

* * *

><p>Kerku raised his voice. "Lunes, <em>now!"<em>

The ten rapidguns attached to his regiment had not fired yet in the engagement. They moved, spinning up to maximum elevation and slewing, and the operators turned their cranks.

A spiteful _brrrt_ underlay the rapid-fire thunder of 35 rounds of 11mm being fired downrange through double-length barrels, and then one of the fell-beasts staggered sideways with both wings torn to ruin. The other gained height, aborting this attack run to get out of the danger zone, and then a shell fired with more luck than skill struck it directly on the chest.

The contact backup fuse detonated, but that only finished the job – a canister shell consisted mostly of lead payload, and it had crippled the monster instantly.

Cheers went up from all along the line as the first fell-beast went down, which turned to screams as the second one crashed – by ill luck as strong as the good in downing it, it landed on 4 company and killed over a dozen of them, and more died to the rider before a wary perimeter was opened around it.

As Kerku tried to work out what to do, one enterprising gunner solved it for him. Running the Anduin down the hill and depressing it so it was aimed straight at the Wraith, he pulled the lanyard on a full load of canister and tore the black robe to tatters.

"Well," Kerku said loudly, mindful of the shocked air of his men, "I don't know if that's killed it, but it'll certainly hurt in the morning!"

He abruptly noticed that over two thirds of his regiment was still firing in volley. Somehow the immediate crisis had taken all his attention.

"Come on, come on, dress the line!" he shouted – then noticed a figure coming over at a fast canter from the centre of the combined army. "Lord wizard!"

Saruman slowed Huan to a walk by the dead fell beast. "A good piece of work by your gunner, Colonel. Do commend him for me."

"Yes sir!" Kerku said fervently. He had to agree – wholeheartedly. "And I don't know if it was luck or judgement that brought this one's beast down, but the other one was sterling work by my Lune gunners."

"Indeed." Saruman looked to the other dying fell beast, now only a hundred metres or so from the front line. "I think I'll join your regiment for a little, Colonel."

The old wizard unlimbered his black staff, and touched his revolver where it sat holstered. "I may have a ring-wraith to kill."

* * *

><p>A great moan went up from the orcish lines as the Fell Beasts went down, and the horribly battered northern flank finally broke.<p>

Gothmog cursed inventively. The northern flank had taken more casualties than could reasonably be expected before losing their nerve, but with them went his hope of salvaging the majority of his army.

"Hold your position!" he shouted, riding down the line of what had just become his front rank. "Hold position, in Sauron's name! Close up those gaps!"

A line of pikes six deep and two thousand long, and six thousand archers. That was what he had left to hold the oncoming enemy and let the rest of his force break contact, since the rest of his formed units were already on the move and headed south.

It occurred to Gothmog that, one way or another, he wasn't going to survive the day.

The thought somehow brought a strange kind of relief.

Carefully, he rode to the middle of the lines. The fantastical army that had torn his flank to ribbons had stalled, or was possibly just consolidating, but in either case he had at least a few more moments.

Still acting with great care, he dismounted from his warg and kicked her in the ribs. "Off with you."

She snarled, and loped off east.

Distantly, he hoped she would survive.

His hand went to his waist, and he drew the short, curved blade that was his sidearm.

"All right, you pussies!" he shouted at the force half-hidden by smoke. "You want me? Come and get me!"

A great roar went up from the orcs, even as three or four of the terrible artillery weapons started to fire once more.

* * *

><p>Saruman advanced at a brisk walk, out ahead of the main body of Kerku's cavalry regiment, with a dozen uruks trotting at his heels.<p>

They were acting without orders, but it didn't take one of Central's simulations to tell that they wouldn't listen if he _did_ tell them to return to their unit.

_Which of the Nine is this,_ he wondered. Over thousands of years, the Wise had catalogued nine distinct identities to these black monsters, which had been tentatively matched to the original nine human ringbearers.

For example, the sky had become substantially lighter in the last twenty minutes. Saruman guessed that that meant the Shadow Lord had been destroyed or driven from the field.

The one killed in the last minute or two was much harder to say.

Then, a blast of cold flame spat from behind the fallen Fell Beast, devouring one of the uruk-hai riflemen in an instant and causing his rifle to shatter.

Saruman blocked the second spell, a great gout of lightning, with his metal staff. The revolver came smoothly up, and Central's aiming grid dropped over his sight.

A small wisp of black cloth fluttered behind the body of the Beast. Saruman moved his arm so that the green dot rested on it.

_Crack-Crack-Crack_, and something screeched. Saruman felt a savage satisfaction – he'd hurt it, all right.

Then the black shape erupted over its dead mount, flame and wind slashing out, and he made the connection. Several of the Nine had some form of magic, but this had to be the most accomplished sorcerer amongst them by far. The Undying.

_"Saruman,"_ it hissed, almost negligently waving an arm and causing rifle bullets to bounce from some kind of shield.

With a chill, Saruman realized that it was ready for gunfire, now. Then, as the chill kept stealing over him, he remembered what Gandalf had once said of this particular Nazgúl.

In the long and ultimately futile struggle with his Ring, the dark creature known as the Undying had developed a way of leaching magic from other adepts – willing or unwilling.

He was serving as the latest donor, and despite an effort of will he could not stop the steady drain. He had to end this fast.

_"Magic…"_

Saruman the White gave a shout and ran forward, accompanied by those riflemen who survived of his impromptu detail. Another flash of magic, this far more foul than the elemental spells of a moment before, sent three of the uruks crashing to the floor and clawing at their skulls. Then they were at hand-strokes.

A Morgul blade flashed in the Ring-wraith's hands, slicing through the unprotected neck of another rifleman and then flicking towards Saruman himself. The old wizard raised his staff, which caught the blow with a flash, and the pitted metal of the blade skirled down the staff to the crown where it was caught.

Saruman wrenched, using his other hand as a lever point, and the knife went flying – but so did Saruman, tumbling over with the force of the pull.

A ragged volley passed just overhead, again stopped by the magical shield.

_"You will serve Sauron…"_ came the hiss, as long fingers reached out towards his throat.

Then there was a roar, and Huan leapt over his master's prone form and cannoned into the Wraith. Magical shield or no, half a ton of angry predator moving at forty miles an hour would not be stopped so easily.

Saruman gasped as the connection was broken, then fumbled for his dropped revolver and shook out the three spent rounds.

Since normal lead bullets hadn't worked, he'd have to try something rather more expensive.

Lightning flashed, and Huan yelped in pain as the electricity scorched him through the thick fur.

**Analysis indicates electrical current in excess of one thousand watts-**

_Will you shut up for once?_ Saruman thought, snapping the revolver closed and bringing it up to bear as he ran.

Central didn't respond, but somehow Saruman got the sense of irritation.

The green dot of the aiming point drifted over the swirling melee as Huan tried gamely to find something to bite, but Saruman couldn't be sure of his target.

"Huan, here!" he shouted, dropping his staff and steadying the hilt of the revolver with his free hand.

Whimpering, Huan rolled frantically and dug in his paws to get away. One of his legs wasn't working right, but-

And Saruman had a clear shot.

The revolver's discharge was more-or-less the same as usual, but this time the effect was markedly different. The Undying immediately began to sizzle, screaming like nothing remotely human, and burned away to a crisp in seconds.

Saruman suddenly felt very tired. His hand dropped to his side, the revolver nearly falling from loose fingers, and he fell to his knees as Huan approached.

"Sir?" Kerku asked, his own warg skidding to a halt. "Are you alright?"

"I will be, I think," Saruman replied. "I believe Huan needs the attention of the medics, though."

"Right you are, sir." Kerku paused. "Sir? What did you _do?_"

Saruman chuckled. "Ironic, I suppose. That particular bullet was tipped with Mithril – some of that same Mithril which once formed one of the Dwarven Rings. I enchanted it in much the same way as the Kingdom of Arnor forged blades for the smiting of Sauron's works."

Kerku turned to get back to his unit, but Saruman's voice stopped him. "And Colonel? Tell the signallers to sound _resume fire, concentrated fire_."

"Yes, sir." He nodded to a runner in his own command group, who loped off.

"I expect to be back with my command in a short time, but… this may be time critical."

* * *

><p>Boromir and Faramir stood on the walls of Minas Tirith, staring out north-east at the battle taking place only a few miles away. By now, the location was marked by a plume of white smoke, rising and bending with the light wind.<p>

"Sons of our fathers," Faramir muttered. "That's terrifying."

Boromir clapped him on the shoulder without looking. "I'd much rather have them on our side, brother. Stop complaining about the people who are breaking that siege."

"Yes, but…" Boromir turned at the note in his brother's voice.

Faramir was struggling with something. "Boromir… we've spent years, decades, learning our trade. And how long is it before those new _rifles_ make it all for nothing?"

"Not for nothing." The elder shrugged. "There'll still be a place for generals, even if bows and swords are no use. And I still think swords _will_ be useful, actually – especially at close quarters."

Then Boromir pointed out at the resuming thunder of gunfire. "I know I want to get my hands on as many of these _rifles_ as possible. If there's one thing that seems utterly clear, it's that sheer mass of numbers means much less now than it used to – which will make it harder for Orcish armies to swarm us under…"

* * *

><p>Strangely, the big… <em>field<em> guns, as Gamling remembered they were called, only fired a few times each before they stopped again. The volleying rifles continued their work, no longer indiscriminately hitting all along the orc lines but punishing three specific areas little more than two hundred metres wide.

One of those areas was right in front of his own Éored, and he knew the reason for this part at least. They were cutting him a path.

Then the rifles stopped as well.

In the singing silence, a smoke-trail fizzed up from the ground and burst in a shower of green sparks.

"Forward, men of Rohan!" he called, and horns sounded the advance. "At a walk!"

The Rohirrim had kept pace with the advancing gun line. Now, they moved forward in a jerking ripple, spreading out into the former line of fire and dressing their lines with casual ease.

It was enough to make the heart of a warrior of the Mark sing.

The horses had been made a little skittish by the noise, but the familiarity of their task quieted them down – then began to work them up again, as the trained animals began to realize that they were about to go into battle.

Hooves thundered as the formation linked up, becoming a solid block of cavalry seven hundred and twenty men wide, with three éoreds of one hundred and twenty each out ahead of the main line. Aiming directly for those three areas the rifles had punished.

"At a trot!" Gamling said, and the order passed down the line. They were now impinging on the area of the routed enemy flank, so any faster would be too risky – too much debris. As it was, the lines grew ragged as the cavalry had to let their horses pick their way through.

From the other side of the drifts of bodies to the enemy rearguard was about six hundred yards – far enough to reach charge speed, but the hiatus was letting the orcs reform their lines. Gamling didn't think they'd be finished when his men struck home, but it would be close.

Light glinted off the points of spears as they were brought down from carry position for the charge.

"Ready, lads?" Gamling asked, and a wordless growl answered him.

* * *

><p>Another rocket hissed skywards, and burst in a red puff of sparks.<p>

And thirty field guns all fired within two seconds of one another.

* * *

><p>"What the-" Gamling said, turning to watch the shells approach – then go over with a ripping wail, and burst.<p>

All the guns had been carefully registered on their target, and the fuzes set with that in mind. Twenty-nine shells airburst right over the orcish line, slicing great semicircles of wounded and dead out of it. The lone stand-out crashed into the ground amongst the archers, and its back-up fuze killed a bare handful.

"Well, our way's clear!" Gamling shouted, putting as much confidence into his voice as possible to reassure his men. "Charge!"

Horns sounded, and ten thousand of the best shock cavalry in the world thundered across the last two furlongs into a stunned, hesitant enemy.

* * *

><p>"Right!" Saruman said, pitching his voice to carry over the cheers. "That's handled them! Now, all cavalry and guns are to mount up or limber up as appropriate, and head east to engage the Haradrim and Mûmakil approaching. Company commanders are to exercise as much initiative as possible. Contact fuzed HE on the Mûmakil, please, and use your range to best advantage."<p>

* * *

><p>Suladân, Serpent Lord of Harad, looked down with disdain at the field of battle.<p>

He had been prepared for his allies and co-believers in Sauron's might to have broken into the city, or for them to still be stalled at the walls and battering a way through. And the thought of having his Mûmakil sweep the walls with their archers, getting into the city by the might of the Serpent what all the ragged orcs of Mordor could not do, had pleased him.

But this...

The orcs were being torn to shreds by cavalry. With a skill born of many raids and more than one minor civil war, Suladân judged quickly that the orcish force was gone. Impossible to rally. They still outnumbered the North-Men horse more than four to one, but fleeing infantry was the cavalryman's legitimate prey.

_Just,_ Suladân thought with pleasure, _as cavalry to my mûmakil._

"Sound the horns and drums," he said calmly. "Form line and advance. Crush the north-men!"

His own mount slowed, allowing the others advancing en echelon to catch up and form their line of battle. The process took five or six minutes, during which thousands more orcs died.

No matter. He had more than enough Corsairs to take the city, once they were in with the aid of his archers. The sheer savagery of boarding actions or longshore raids made them superb close quarters warriors, though irregular enough to be much less help on the open field.

"Cavalry to the flanks," he added, and raiders – light cavalry, with bow and lance and sabre, masters of the slashing raid and hit-and-run tactics – shook out into distinct troops and headed north and south for a scorpion's pincer.

The only thing worrying him was that fog bank…

As he thought, the fog rippled. Flashes of silver came out of it, and a great tearing as of canvas reached his ears. Slams and crashes came from around his right flank mûmakil, and the raiders began to drop.

* * *

><p>The shells being fired by the Isengard field guns were quite different to the shrapnel they had used in the earlier phase of the battle. These rounds had no timed fuze, just a contact detonator which set them off after a fraction of a seconds' delay.<p>

They had no separate payload like shrapnel shells, either, though the thicker body of the round meant not all the additional weight went into the explosive. Just most of it.

Designed for a 75mm rifled field piece, they weighed around five kilograms, and were intended to be capable of penetrating a useful distance into a wooden or stone target before detonating; to this end, they had a tip designed for penetration without splitting, so as to retain the magnifying effect of the shell walls on the blast and force a higher pressure.

Mûmak hide was tough, being several inches thick in places, but it was not as strong as hard wood – let alone stone. A high explosive shell blew a huge, bloody crater in the side of such an animal, and it did not take more than four or five such hits to send it into shock.

* * *

><p>Suladân gaped as his two rightmost Mûmakil collapsed, spilling the contents of their howdahs collapsing onto the ground – often from such a height as to break bones, assuming they survived at all.<p>

"Drummer!" he snapped, still looking. "Everyone, turn right! I want the _heads_ of whoever has attacked like that!"

More silvery shapes shot out of the clouds of fog – or _was _it smoke? – and began to thunder around the feet of the third mûmak from the right of his line. It staggered, then kept moving at the urges of the mahout.

The raiders charged towards whatever was reaching out and slaying his mûmakil, but they seemed to be having trouble keeping their own mounts from tripping or falling. Caltraps, perhaps? In any case, it was no longer possible to call them back, and so he just watched.

* * *

><p><strong>Analysis indicates the eighth or ninth mûmak in line will come into bow range before being killed by artillery. Observe.<strong>

-and a shower of barbed arrows came down from the howdah as it swept closer, killing the operators of some of the Anduin guns and unsettling others. More shots went wide, and the oncoming mûmak was hit only twice – not enough to disable it instantly. Trumpeting in rage, it charged forward, and the cavalry scattered as their guns were torn apart behind them…

Saruman blinked away the holographic vision. "All battery officers, limber your guns after the next volley and withdraw two thousand metres at the canter. Cavalry to fire up at the howdahs where possible. Colonel Mauhur, your Flameseekers is to focus on moving north and east, with an eye towards flanking and encirclement."

Trumpets relayed orders to the field guns, and Mauhur's command group rode off to take charge of his regiment.

The closest gun fired with a _Poumf_, air slapping at the muddy grass in front of it, and the round smashed half of a howdah to kindling. The gunners caught it before it finished recoiling, dipped the nose and ran the trails right up onto the caisson. One man locked the trail to the caisson, then he and the rest either sat on it or on the hitch-wargs, who pulled at the traces and got the mass of metal moving. Once it had momentum, the task was much easier, and within thirty seconds of the last round it was moving at nearly full speed out of the danger zone.

* * *

><p>Suladân blinked, trying to see through the clouds of smoke. He'd spotted something last time they'd cleared, which made it look like there was artillery there – some contraption, at any rate, like a catapult. But how incompetent were the orcs, to let something like that be built overlooking their siege lines?<p>

A glance to the west showed that by now the Rohirrim had effectively completed the rout of the orcish forces opposing them. Their winded horses were being rested, broken spears replaced from their relatively few dead, and the last few trolls were being speared or shot down from a distance.

Some arrows were heading their way from his flanking raiders, but they were unmistakeably uncertain in their movements – probably missing the comfortable bulwark of his mûmakil to fall back on at need.

Well, he needed them more.

A sudden gust blew holes in the smoke bank, and Suladân squinted. He'd definitely seen _something_ there before, so where was it-

"Shit!" he shouted, spotting a strange contraption moving away at speed. It moved like a chariot, but the only think it _could_ be was the siege engines that had hammered his line of battle.

And if it was, then he had no way of catching them.

"Drummers! Pull back the right flank! Rally on my flag!"

The signaller looked at him, surprised.

The Serpent Lord gave a rictus grin. "We can't attack them piecemeal, or they will tear our mûmakil apart in isolation and we will be as fat merchant caravans taken by sand-thieves. As a great mass, they cannot kill us all in time."

With a jerky nod, the drummer began to beat out signals.

* * *

><p>Saruman, now astride a warg taken from the remount pack, frowned into the distance as drumbeats rolled out. "That's rather more prompt action than I would have liked…"<p>

A mûmak twitched feebly as it bled out through the huge, gaping wounds blasted in its skin. From the north came the sound of steadily volleying rifles as the Southron right underwent more or less the same process.

And without support from those mobile fortresses, the Southron left should be collapsing under the weight of a charge from five times their number of cavalry.

"Message to Théoden."

A crow sitting on his shoulder perked up.

"Message begins. We will handle the mûmakil; try to lure as many of the corsair crew on shore as you can and cut them down. It's been an honour fighting alongside you so far today. Saruman. Message ends."

The crow bobbed his head, and repeated the message.

"Good. Go!"

* * *

><p>A dispatch rider on an excellent horse pulled up alongside Éowyn. "Sir Dernhelm, I have orders from the King to Grimbold. Where is he?"<p>

"Dead." Éowyn's own grief made her voice harsh. "His horse foundered to an orcish spear and they hacked through his neck."

The rider's face fell. "My condolences. But then I must give my orders to you – the right flank is to sweep around and make for the docks, where the corsairs are leaving their ships. Pass it on to his second, I know not who that is."

The princess felt like swearing. Grimbold had been a good friend, and a skilled commander. His men trusted _him_ – and, quite likely, they wouldn't trust another nearly so well. And to follow some new commander _away_ from the fighting was asking more still of them.

Grimbold's bannerman beckoned to her. "I know what we must do."

"What?" she asked, frowning.

"They won't follow Sir Dernhelm… but they'll follow Éowyn, daughter of the House of Éorl."

Some of the men made little sounds of surprise, but not many.

"Himself told me last night," the bannerman continued. "Got me to bring the banner of your house, as well." He revealed the sturdy banner, a flag that could be flown from a normal guidon, and Éowyn couldn't help but laugh at his earnest expression.

"It seems I must," she said with a smile, and swept her helmet off to reveal her blazing golden hair.

The banner went up within a minute, and horns started to blow. A simple enough signal – follow the banner. And it was quickly clear which banner that was, as the flag of the House of Éorl swept the field behind a shining gold point of light.

* * *

><p>Théoden squinted, then sighed as he recognized the banner. "Damn that girl! I <em>thought<em> she was quiet last night!"

"She'd have never agreed to stay behind," Theodred said lightly. "Hold on, that's Grimbold's éored she's leading – I recognize his bannerman's horse."

"Where's Grimbold, then?" Elfhelm asked, shading his eyes.

"No sign of him."

There was a quiet pause, as they realized the likely reason for Éowyn to cast aside her camouflage.

"He was a good man," Théoden said quietly. "Now, let's show these Southron pussies what a _real_ cavalryman's like!"

The roar of sudden laughter lifted the hearts of all about the command group, and they headed forward in a rush with their rested horses.

* * *

><p>"Rohan!" Elfhelm called, raising his spear, and those who hadn't broken them in the initial charge matched him. The Riders who were down to their swords or axes fell back slightly, letting those with spears take the initial shock of contact, and the horse archers fired off husbanded arrows from their saddle-quivers.<p>

Gamling's unit had kept the raiders in play as the prince rested his central brigade, and the tired Rohirrim had seemed on the verge of breaking. The raiders, pressing in for the kill, were totally unprepared for another force itself larger than their own to hit them in the flank, and the battle dissolved into a mounted melee with no large-scale order – which suited the better armoured Rohirrim just fine.

* * *

><p>Suladân looked back and forth, gauging the readiness of his mûmakil.<p>

Worryingly, the situation with his horse had not improved. The left flank was being overwhelmed by western cavalry, and his right was falling back from a fresh column of smoke – the red flashes of those strange weapons visible as the smoke roiled.

He _had_ to break their position soon. Another look up and down the line, and he curled his lip.

One Mûmak was frowning down at the gory ruin of a herd-mate, despite the exhortations of the mahout. Another had taken some minor wounds in the fighting in Osgiliath, and the scent of blood was driving it into a rage.

They were about as settled as they were likely to get, really, so he had the horns blown for a general advance at speed.

Each Mûmak was about as large as land animals could possibly become. Well over eight metres tall at the shoulder and weighing in excess of fifty tonnes, they were sometimes used at the charge to trample palisade walls flat. They were also fast for such big animals, able to hit forty kilometres per hour over very short distances, and sustain thirty in battle for a reasonable length of time.

Fifteen Mûmakil rumbled in a closely spaced line towards the Isengard positions now re-establishing themselves. Counting their crews and howdahs, the total weight of the oncoming charge was something like eight hundred tonnes of snorting rage. The very ground trembled before them, and the Serpent Lord felt a thrill.

Surely nothing could stand before the very fist of the God himself!

Then the unnatural smoke came again.

* * *

><p>"Come on, come on!" the gun captain shouted, as his piece heeled over in a turn that nearly flipped it off the wheels. The locking pin went out, wargs to the rear, a shell carried from the caisson as the gun captain heaved his Anduin around to point at his chosen target.<p>

"Fire!"

No attempt at a volley this time. Each Anduin was firing as soon as reloading was complete, and rather than a single thunderous roar the artillery spoke for almost ten seconds of terrible din.

Underlying that thunder was the sharper, spiteful _brrrt_ of the rapidguns, and the _slams_ of battalion volleys. While the hide of a Mûmak was extremely thick, it wasn't impervious; while the range was long, the target was large; and when over four hundred bullets every eight seconds were fired downrange at a single Mûmak, sooner or later one of the bullets would hit an eye or a mahout or snap a rope.

The first to fall was a beast around the middle of the left flank. Trumpeting in pain as a contact shell blasted a gaping hole in its back, it tripped as the back legs abruptly stopped working. Even at that distance, the screams of men from the howdah could be heard as it whip-sawed off its moorings and smashed to pieces on the ground.

Then another fell out of line, thrashing as bullets found an eye. And another, left front leg torn off by a shell.

It was a gallant charge, by a force that could have shaken a nation into dust.

But it wasn't enough.

* * *

><p>Suladân stared, glassy-eyed, as the last two mûmakil accompanying his command mount collided. The bull mûmakil, trained for aggression, broke the control of their handlers and began fighting over the hurt of the impact – even as hell-weapon impacts pattered around them.<p>

As him, they were clinging to instinct in a totally unfamiliar world.

His howdah archers began to fire, those few who were left. By now, they were so close to the fantastical army that he could make out details even through the smoke.

The infantry looked tall, taller for the most part than Men or most Orcs. Were these the elves he had heard whispered stories about?

Some corner of his mind noticed that the long, metal pole-carriages… the very same devices which had been spitting death and destruction – were now turning to aim at him. And that the sound of impacts from the lesser weapons had gone from a pattering to a heavy rain and now to a sodden torrent.

Even Mûmak hide could not entirely absorb those impacts, and his Mûmak's trunk was a gory ruin. Every footfall was uncertain, strained, and the speed of the charge had petered out to a slow plod.

"Sauron," he whispered, and then there was a fresh cloud of smoke-

* * *

><p>"Aule…" Colonel Geren whispered, looking at the last Mûmak as it finally slumped. "This bastard must have a thousand holes in it, and it wouldn't <em>stop<em>. Aule's forge…"

The roaring of the guns died away, and the loudest sound was the snap of the unmarred flags, in the freshening breeze that was sweeping away the smell of gun-smoke.

* * *

><p>"Message for Colonel Kerkú," Saruman said, shaking his head to clear it of the carnage. "He's to take his regiment and attached battery, and advance to support the efforts of the Rohirrim in dealing with Umbar forces. And to Colonel Geren – his regiment and battery are to make for the south. There's still a blocking force there that needs dealt with. Finally, Colonel Mauhúr is to accompany me on a move to the east. All are to be sparing of ammunition – we've used up a good deal of our supplies, and it's a long way to the rail head if we need to get more." He paused. "And remind them to take surrenders, where feasible. I don't know if we'll get many, but the rail line <em>needs<em> labour. Inform Colonel Raza that her infantry will be needed to police the prisoner camp."

Messengers spilled out of Saruman's command group.

"It's a good thing this battle was fought in the morning…" he said, almost to himself. What it took to not merely defeat but _destroy_ an enemy army was pursuit. The long, driving pursuit of a cavalry force, for as much of the day as possible, running down survivors and shattering what remained of the organizational structure of the enemy army.

There would be those who escaped the net when the sun fell – there always were – but it would be as individuals, not any semblance of an army.

"How is Huan?" the wizard asked, looking back towards the medical encampment at the foot of the White Mountain.

"I've not heard anything," the medical attaché said, anxiously. "Should I have?"

"No, I was just wondering." His new warg shook herself slightly, but stopped at the warning pressure of a boot.

**Prediction indicates 85% +/- 3% that the wounds will be made good within the week. Presence of antiseptics and antibiotics renders infection unlikely.**

_Thank you_, Saruman thought silently.

**You are welcome.**

* * *

><p>Steady platoon volleys crashed out with metronome precision, a one second gap between each blast of forty rifles.<p>

Geren nodded to himself, watching the trapped orcish blocking force seethe under the slow fire. True to Saruman's orders, he was firing far less rapidly than he needed to – in the time it took between volleys by the same platoon, they could have fitted five more shots – but ammunition was indeed becoming a concern. To that end, the rapidguns were being reserved for emergencies.

Even as he thought, a formation began to coalesce around some banner in the morass. Sergeants shouted, and the rifle fire went from a generalized attrition to a direct focus on the coherent portion.

In perhaps twenty seconds, the formation and the banner were gone.

Geren watched for a further three minutes, then came to a decision. "Cease fire. Get some volunteers with a truce-banner. I think they've lost their fight."

* * *

><p>Éowyn turned at the thudding sounds of hooves.<p>

No – paws, as it happened. A regiment of Isengard cavalry rode up in column of fours, followed by their artillery.

"What news?" Kerkú asked, dropping out of line at the sight of her banner and pulling up next to her.

Éowyn gestured with her sword. "We burned around half of their ships before they managed to pull away, but most of the fugutives swam out to sea. Nearly nine in ten of them are escaping – they're out of bow shot now, and taking on those who escaped."

"Not for long," the colonel said grimly. "Trumpeter! Sound _artillery into battery_! Right up to the edge of the wharfs – and load contact for the anduins! The Lunes… just get them ready."

"What are you planning?" Éowyn asked, eyes intent.

"Those ships are cockleshells," Kerkú answered. "I know Rohirric ships – what there are – use a skeleton of ribs, but these don't. They're designed to be _light_, to operate under oars." Kerkú's grin looked like something out of deep water. "I don't think they'll like being shot."

The shield-maiden nodded slowly. Then her eyes widened. "Wait!"

"What?"

"What about the slaves?"

Kerkú surprised himself by laughing. "No such thing, really. Good luck making slaves row your ship for you! No, rowing a warship is a professional bit of business – it takes excellent coordination." She still looked uncertain, so he nodded to the still-burning hulks. "Find any in there?"

"No," she admitted. "I… no, you're right. Sorry."

"No, it's good to check." Kerkú shrugged. "They do _take_ slaves, but unless I miss my guess they're just held for transfer back to Umbar. And a hold full of slaves isn't the sort of thing you want to carry going into battle."

* * *

><p>Down at the waterfront, the first rapidguns swung free from their caissons at the end of the wharf.<p>

"What range do you make it?" one of the crew asked, slotting in the plate of ammunition and heaving it to point at one of the Umbaran galleys.

"I'd say… six hundred metres, or a little more," the other replied, and spun the elevating screw. His gun's honeycomb muzzle rose, like a creature sniffing the air. "…there."

"Firing." The first uruk turned the handle, and thirty-five bullets buzzed downrange.

"Yes!" the aimer crowed, seeing one of the ships stagger and lose way.

A loud _poumf_ came from the beach, as one of the Anduins got to work, and a waterspout blasted up in the centre of the gaggle of ships. Then another, and then one of the rounds hit a vessel.

Planking and bodies and bits of bodies fountained skywards, and within a few seconds smoke began to ooze from the galley as well – ship wood caught fire easily.

"Showoffs…" the aimer muttered, moving his weapon minutely to track the motion of his chosen target. "Fire!"

* * *

><p>"That's it," Saruman said finally. "We can't force Osgiliath today, not without throwing away the victory we've won. Dig in and make a bastion here."<p>

"By your order," Mauhúr said, and turned to his men.

_Central?_ Saruman thought, looking back across the Pelennor. _What's the butcher's bill?_

**From available data, estimate 150 +/- 40 casualties amongst Isengard forces. Main cause of casualties was Nazgúl attacks and the troll ambush.**

Saruman nodded to himself. That had been nasty.

Some Orcish commander had kept six trolls hidden within the ruins of a siege engine discarded the previous day, and released them only when the cavalry were close. Putting them down had been chaotic and messy, but that had been the only real resistance – driving the shattered ruins of the Haradrim contingent before them like froth ahead of a speeding ship, Mauhúr's dragoons had cut clear to the outskirts of Osgiliath before they started meeting organized enemy units again… and the cover of the city's suburbs would remove many of the advantages his dragoons had over simple foot spearmen.

**The lesson of Stalingrad. Observe.**

Saruman saw… hell.

A huge city, stupefyingly vast, sprawling over a river and for over ten kilometres in every direction. Men with rifles – more advanced than the Isen, using smokeless propellant – and moving machines, the _tanks_, and the occasional _air craft_ – fought in a long, snarling urban battle.

Artillery pounded buildings to rubble. Men fought at bayonet-point. Rockets howled overhead, bombarding areas held by the other side. Repeating weapons snarled. Some buildings – single buildings – lasted weeks as strongpoints, until either flattened or finally taken.

And snipers were omnipresent, punishing a moment of inattention with a speedy death.

Saruman shook the hell-scape away. _The Rohirrim? And the enemy?_

Central paused. **Eight hundred Rohirrim are dead, and another four hundred crippled. Both numbers have uncertainty of ten percent.**

**Counting dead, captured and crippled, the enemy has suffered one hundred and fifty thousand casualties. Plus or minus ten thousand.**

_Could you repeat that?_ Sauron requested, not quite comprehending the number.

**150,000 +/- 10,000 unrecoverable casualties,** Central repeated inexorably. **Plus 80% of the Umbaran hulls committed to the attack, and all 23 Mûmakil.**

Saruman blinked, slowly. By any measure, that was the most spectacular battlefield victory in… over two thousand years.

Still… _Time until the next possible offensive out of Mordor, Harad or Umbar?_

**Four months – autumn.**

_Then we have a breathing space…_ Saruman thought, more to himself than to Central. Contemplating that offensive was a sobering thought – by then, it was likely at least that _that_ army would have cannon, and possibly guns, given how fast a crude arquebus had been made by the orcs of Gundabad… but four months was four months. And that might be long enough to implement the Isen II, or even III…

* * *

><p>The sons of Denethor, and one wizard, rode out of the great gates of Minas Tirith as dusk fell, and five thousand Rohirrim approached the white city.<p>

Alongside nearly twelve hundred uruk-hai on cavalry wargs. And one other wizard.

"Well, if it isn't my old friends Saruman and Théoden!" Gandalf said, smiling.

"So," Saruman replied, with a moderately reproving look. "You believe me now, Gandalf?"

"On balance, I do," the Grey said solemnly. "I won't deny it's a surprising thing to see, but there it is."

He turned to Boromir. "And I have your man Lurtz to thank for my life, as does Boromir. The Shadow Lord nearly killed us, up on the walls, and would have were it not for the revolvers he gave us."

"My pleasure." Saruman nodded. "Your reputation outstrips you, Boromir. As does yours, Faramir."

Boromir grinned, returning the nod. "Sturdy man, Lurtz. I like him."

"There's a reason I chose him for detached duty…" Saruman allowed.

"Come on," Faramir said, gesturing to the gates. "It's been a long day, and a tiring one. I think we can spare the men who saved our city a night in pleasant quarters."

"We might need to rotate them through…" Saruman said thoughtfully. "I brought four regiments, not just one, but two of them are deployed to the east and one is marching here from the north as we speak."

"And this is only about half my muster," Théoden added. "As with Saruman, many of my troops are still to the east and watching over Osgiliath."

"I see." Gandalf stroked his beard. "Boromir? How soon could you start shifting forces back to their old deployments, so we can clear Osgiliath?"

"Might be a few days…" Boromir muttered, already thinking hard.

Faramir chuckled and tapped him on the shoulder. "No talking shop! We've earned a night's freedom, surely!"

"Perhaps we have," Gandalf allowed. "Come, then, the citizens of Minas Tirith await their saviours."

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

Phew.

So, there's the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. It took a long time to do, hopefully it makes sense.

(The idea of differentiated Nazgul is actually from the Lord of the Rings strategy battle game from Games Workshop - as, in fact, is the Serpent Lord, Suladan.)


	11. Chapter 11

"_Soldier boy be full of fight – soldier boy be randy_

_Mind the drumbeat – mind the step_

_And with the girls be handy..."_

From a low rise, Marek and his command group watched the regiment go past. More than half his attention, however, was on the map before him.

"Okay, where were they?"

A crow pointed, carefully crooking a talon to tap the paper, and Marek made a light pencil mark.

"I see..."

The pencilled cross was just northwest of Dorwinion the city, indicating that the Rhun forces had invested and bypassed it – probably warned by their outriders of the approaching Dale relief force.

For a moment, he simply studied the terrain, then raised his voice again.

"Where is the Dale force?"

"Just past the tributary, north bank."

"So, they're both on the same side of the river... and we're on the _other_ side," Marek said, thinking aloud. "I think we'll have to make for the ford at Bringa."

The colonel turned to a member of the command group. "Bright-fang, tell the others. I want the Easterlings blind to our movements – kill their scouts."

Bright-fang gave an amused growl, one matched by a number of the wargs, and loped easily off north.

"That's one problem solved..." the bannerman noted wryly, to scattered laughter.

"Indeed. Now, the ford is... six miles away. That should get us there at..." Marek checked the sky. "Call it eleven AM."

"By then, there'll be a battle starting," Tureg said, pointing. "Those Easterlings aren't moving all that fast, the infantry anyway, but their cavalry are quicker than that. They'll be running into the Dale outliers."

Marek nodded. "Nevertheless, I think we can tarry a moment at the ford to make sure everyone has eaten. Once over the river, I'm going to want us to advance in square."

Turek frowned, but saw the logic in it. It would slow them down substantially, but the going was relatively good – a broad, flat plain which was just at one end of the prospective battle site – and there was no need to court a charge of Rhun lancers.

"I think that's everything for now?"

"One question, sir," the battery commander said with a cough. "Where do you want my guns?"

Marek thought. "I think it depends on the situation as and when we reach the river. If you can range the battle from this side, I think it makes sense to just stay there and cover the river with rapidguns and a company of foot."

The gunner thought for a moment, then accepted that.

* * *

><p>By the banks of a large river, a pair of Rhun horsemen rode at an easy canter, keeping alert.<p>

"Nothing. Miles and miles of fucking nothing," Karilas said, disgusted. "I knew all the peasants had run for the walls."

"Shut up," his partner snapped. "The outriders found the main Dale body two days ago."

"Yeah, and it's on the _north_ side of the river. And that other army should be stopping anything coming from Uldonovan."

The second horseman shook his head, disgusted – then his horse snorted and tried to turn, nostrils flaring.

"What-"

Karilas nearly lost his seat, despite his stirrups, as _his_ horse reared in fright.

"What's going on?" he shouted, clinging to the reins and looking around wildly.

"Upwind, must be!"

The two horse archers turned to look. There was nothing nearby, so their horses must be smelling something – possibly just a pile of dung, but to scare them this much-

Then there was a snarl. From _behind_ them.

Karilas turned, snatching at his bow.

It took a moment to comprehend what he was seeing, as a huge, furred monster erupted from what looked like nothing more than grass and bowled the other cavalryman – and his _horse_ – clean over. Then it took one bite, and tore out the man's throat.

Karilas' horse let out a scream of fear, and threw him.

Long practise turned the tumble into a roll, and brought him back up with his scimitar ready. Not that it would do much good. If he were on horseback, he'd have tried to make distance and draw his bow, but this close it was the blade or death – and probably both.

The monster lay down, resting its head on its paws. It seemed to almost be amused with him...

Something hit him in the back, and his last sensation was hot breath on the back of his neck.

* * *

><p>"That makes ten," Red-maw said, licking his paw. "Too easy."<p>

Swift-jaw bared his teeth in a grin. "Told you it would work."

The scent of werewolves, being very like that of wolves, easily panicked a horse. But the trick was to place the ambushing werewolf directly downwind of the other.

With half the pack, they were able to form a kind of "tripwire" of werewolves along the line of the wind, where the two bracketing a patrol's chosen route would handle it.

Smoke-tail appeared at the top of the nearest ridge for a moment, and the other two werewolves nodded before moving back to positions.

About a hundred metres closer to the river, this time. No sense letting the mice see the previous mousetrap.

* * *

><p>As the sun approached zenith, a cavalry clash between the personal guard of the earl of Ilanin and a Vurzugan from near Kugavod began to escalate.<p>

First, the other scouting parties of Dale cavalry closed up, some of them dismounting to use their cased longbows, and began to gain the upper hand.

Then, a number of frontier Deghans rode into the fray, lances ready, with their retainers volleying arrows from the saddle to cover their advance. The Dalesmen remounted and fell back in the face of the attack, which led to the Rhun cavalry detachment pressing too far and running into the fire of foot longbowmen deploying from their column of march.

By that point, both sides were aware that they had encountered the enemy, but neither was mobile enough to really take immediate advantage. The Dale had only a small number of cavalry, whose role was mostly secondary to their infantry based main army.

The Rhun forces were in the majority infantry themselves, and what cavalry they had was an important resource, so the commander decided it wasn't worth the potential cost to overrun a small column – not realizing that it was in truth a very large one, well worth the cost.

So, the two commanders closed up their column of march, deploying into their standard pitched-battle formations.

The Dale billmen and swordsmen hemmed close in around the archers while they drove in their defensive stakes, proof at least against lancers if not as much good against archers. Once that was done, the light and medium infantry spread out to form their fighting line while the heavy infantry stayed near the centre. Several blocks of swordsmen stayed behind the archers as reserve, and all their cavalry as mounted reserve near the centre.

Finally, a half-dozen light war machines – ballistae, mainly – were being assembled behind a low ridge.

Prince Brand of Esgaroth was planning on fighting a mainly defensive battle, with his objective for the present simply to stymie the invasion of his homeland – if he was not attacked, then reinforcements could strengthen him, while the enemy were already fighting on unfamiliar territory at the end of a difficult logistics chain. Once the ballistae were assembled, they could force the Rhun forces to either attack or leave.

* * *

><p>His opposite number, Kadphises of the Karen, was more offensive minded.<p>

After cursing at his scouts for ruining his first chance at victory, the high-born Rhun officer ordered his halberdiers deployed into formation. Eight deep, well armoured, and armed with weapons equally effective at fighting armoured or unarmoured targets, whether mounted or on foot, the easterling infantry was planned to simply march across the field in close order, maintaining a linear formation, and destroy the enemy.

In front of them, he deployed a screen of archers, to prepare the way and harass the enemy. Likewise armoured, they would be less critical in the battle but useful

And, to the wings, he deployed his true decisive arm. His cavalry.

A Deghan had taught him the most basic form of warfare, decades before. Hold the enemy in place, then crush them against the anvil. It was always valid.

* * *

><p>"Well?" Marek asked quietly.<p>

"I can range them, sir," the artilleryman replied. "It'll take ranging shots, right enough, but their right wing is inside four kilometres."

"Good." Marek clapped him on the shoulder. "Remember, don't push them onto the ridge until we're on the march."

The river here was broad, and had shallow levees. Barely seven high compared to the floodplain, but enough to mask the movement of the Isengarder regiment.

"I'll leave you... third company, I think," Marek added. "They're understrength, but not badly so."

"They'll do," the gunner said with a nod. "Right, then. To work?"

Marek looked back. They hadn't been able to give the men hot food, since the smoke from the fires could have given them away, but at least they'd been able to have a meal of hardtack.

As for the great beasts, the yurgs, those were hidden back behind a hill a few kilometres away...

"Yes, I think so," Marek said, shaking his head to clear it. "Right. Lads?"

Muttering ceased in the infantry sitting below.

"Let's be about it."

* * *

><p>Arrows sleeted back and forth, as the Dale longbowmen exchanged fire with Easterling skirmishers.<p>

The westerners were being careful to limit themselves to aimed shots – this was something of a sideshow, after all – and some of them were behind hastily erected wooden pavises to shield them from the incoming arrows. The brainchild of an officer in the Ilanin muster, they were likely to be adopted across the whole force soon.

_If any of us live to pass it on, of course..._ Prince Brand thought, stroking his chin.

The halberdiers were terrifying to watch. Thousands upon thousands of men in identical scale armour, advancing at a slow walk across the field like a ponderous glacier. Ready to crush all before it.

As he watched, the Dale swordsmen in front of him hastily formed fish-scale formation. Arrows pattered off their raised shields, though more than a few bit home.

"How long on those ballista?" he asked, quietly.

"Another ten minutes at least, sir."

So they would be complete about the time the enemy arrived, anyway.

This was going to be a close one.

* * *

><p>"Very good," Kadphises said. "Ready the lancers."<p>

"Sir – to the south!"

He turned with a scowl. "What?"

"The ford!"

Kadphises looked, then swore. A single unit of infantry, perhaps a thousand strong, was crossing the ford.

That in itself wasn't a major concern – he had the majority of his cavalry deployed on that flank, and could crush them with ease – but what _was_ was that he had had no idea they were approaching.

"What have my scouts been doing?" he asked plaintively.

"No scouts have returned from the south in the last three hours-"

"Imbeciles! Why did you not warn me?"

_Because you ordered us to give you summaries of the negative results at the end of each day only,_ went unsaid.

"Mera! Take the lancers, take the archers, sweep that enemy from the field! And send the leftmost regiment of halberdiers to cover the ford!"

* * *

><p>Ugbrag's trousers were wet.<p>

That was the thing uppermost in his mind as he and his comrades double-timed up from the river. It was a cloudy day in spring, after all, and in the north where the wind swept off the pole.

Then he saw the ripple of moving steel and bronze as a full brigade of cavalry smoothly altered course towards them – towards _him_.

The trumpets blew. A complex call – _form square_, repeated three times and then finished with _execute._

Two companies – third and fifth in the column of march – drifted left out of line. The fourth and sixth in column drifted right, Ugbrag among them. The front two swung from column into line, and the rear two copied them.

The remaining company, seventh in line, was the most understrength of all, and moved up to serve as central reserve.

Forming prone-kneeling-standing, each company occupied about forty metres of frontage and half the side of the square within a minute.

_Halt. Prepare to receive cavalry._

Bayonets went onto rifles, and there was a _clack_ as everyone loaded.

Ugbrag tried to keep an eye on the easterlings approaching. They seemed a lot closer now...

"Set sights to four hundred metres!"

And that seemed _very_ close to let a mounted lancer. Or archer, come to that. As he watched, the Easterlings shook out into formation. Archers to the flanks and rear, lancers to the fore.

Artillery-fire startled him. He'd actually forgotten about the guns, emplaced on the south side of the river. As he watched, the shells airburst with vicious cracks, and the deadly beauty of the charge began to come apart.

"Fire!"

That order wasn't for him – it was for the riflemen on the north side of the formation. Two hundred and thirty rounds cracked out in three distinct volleys, and more lancers went down.

The horse archers on the flanks may have been astonished, but they were competent soldiers, and could easily tell that whatever weapon they were facing required reloading. That made it the same fight they had had for years against Dale longbowmen.

"Fire!"

That one _was_ his captain, and Ugbrag's company fired a volley that sent several horse archers tumbling.

"Aim for the horses, lads! Left a bit, _fire!_"

The wasp's-nest sound of rapidgun bullets passing too close by swept away a mounted rush just before it hit home, and bayonets impaled the few horses which made it to their lines. Revolvers cracked as the officers used them to finish off unhorsed, dazed easterlings.

A platoon of the reserve doubled up, and lent their fire in support at the nearby corner – always a vulnerable spot for a square, just because so few bayonets could be brought to bear.

"Aim for the clump, follow my sword, _fire!"_

* * *

><p>Kadphises crushed his goblet in his hand as thunder continued to roll out from the battle on his left flank – now obscured by smoke.<p>

"Sir," a dispatch rider said, riding up in a spatter of mud. "Mera reports they're advancing formed into some kind of square – he couldn't break it. And there's weapons shooting from the opposite bank-"

"Tell him to _stop_ them!" Kadphises shouted. "They're only _infantry!_ Send in the reserve!"

A _snap_ caught his attention, directly west of his position. Clouds of dirty smoke sprang into existence over his infantry line, each cored with red fire for a moment, and entire halberdier battalions collapsed to the ground.

Many of them stayed there, leaving gaps in the formation. Even as he watched, the stubborn halberdiers continued advancing – they were now into the outskirts of the longbowmen's range, as well, and were moving forward like men leaning into wind.

* * *

><p>"Well, I don't know who the bloody hell they are," Prince Brand commented absently, "but I'm grateful for it. Messages to all infantry battalion commanders – if those gaps in the easterling lines persist, use them to work around their flanks once engaged to their front."<p>

* * *

><p>After the fourth charge at the infantry square, things quietened down for a few minutes. Largely because there was no longer sufficient lancer cavalry to press the assault, and because extreme range for the heavy horse-bows used by the Rhun cavalry was shorter than extreme range for Isengard riflemen.<p>

As the full extent of the disaster became clearer, Kadphises tore his saddle-cloth. Then he turned to a signaller.

"Order the men to scatter and retreat. Horse archers to cover them from Dale attack, and keep north – out of range of those new enemies. I will not continue with a plan that has failed."

"But-" one of his retainers protested.

"No!" Kadphises roared. "We have too little cavalry, and must send for more. If we scatter the halberdiers, at least they will be worse targets for those other weapons."

Another snap, and another fifty men collapsed.

"Now!"

* * *

><p>"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Marek said, bowing slightly. "Prince Brand of Esgaroth?"<p>

"The very same," Prince Brand replied. "And you would be the _uruk_ my father spoke of?"

"One of them." Marek turned to indicate his regiment. "These are my men, the Blood and Steel regiment out of Isengard."

After a pause, the colonel raised a finger. "I am aware that there are rather fewer of us than there are of your army. To that end, I suggest that we place ourselves under your command – _directly, _that is, I'm not one to quibble over precise orders of rank but it would be too potentially confusing to not have access to your councils – for the duration of this immediate campaign."

"That makes sense, master Uruk," Brand said with a nod. "Very well, then. Though – a moment. What are those that are hauling your artillery about?"

Marek chuckled. "They're called limbers and caissons, Prince."

"Very interesting. So the weapons are towed assembled?" Brand's eyes darted to his ballistae.

"More that they can't be disassembled, but the idea is the same." Marek stroked his chin. "Perhaps it might be possible to speak to your carpenters? I think it would be possible to construct a limber for ballistae."

"That would be helpful."

* * *

><p>"Well, that can't be exactly good," Lurtz said, lowering his telescope. "They've learned."<p>

"May I?" Aragorn asked, and took the telescope. A moment of fiddling with the focus wheel, and he had the range. "Mobile arrow screens, I see."

"I'd guess they'll stop bullets, too – that's thick wood. They'll move slowly, but..."

"Yes, with those screens neutralizing our missile fire then they can afford to move slowly." Aragorn looked down from the walls at the ruin which aimed rifle fire had made of the first assault – at least two hundred bodies, man and orc, along with a troll and two abandoned rams – and winced.

Lurtz nodded to himself. "One good side of this, of course, is that we won't be caught unawares. We'll have time to prepare – get everyone woken up, armoured up, that sort of thing."

"True."

The Uruk captain retrieved his telescope and swept along the line of the galleys, then kept going. When he reached straight upriver he stiffened.

Aragorn pushed his telescope down. "Don't, they'll see. Ask Legolas to look."

"Right, sorry."

"What was it you saw?" Aragorn asked, heading down the stairs from the wall. Lurtz followed a few paces behind.

"I think I saw rafts," Lurtz explained. "But you're right, if I look that way they'll notice."

The Ranger nodded. "Better they think we didn't notice."

* * *

><p>"That will stretch us," Lord Cair Andros muttered, looking over the map and the various wooden counters marking their available units. "We could cover the northern wall with militia – it's not exactly demanding to hold a fixed position when the enemy is attacking from boats – but they'll need at least a platoon of regulars as stiffener, and that's got to come from the reserve."<p>

"You can't stiffen a bucket of spit with a handful of stones," someone said, too quietly to really tell their identity.

"Under the circumstances, I think we have two choices," Lurtz ventured. "The first is to keep my men back as the reserve – we can certainly punish a lodgement firing from the street, and their army isn't big enough to try to both feed troops into a lodgement and sustain a long assault."

"So once they start giving back, we shift units along the wall?" one of the Gondorian captains said. "Tricky. Look-" he reached for the blocks, and arrayed them along the north and east walls. More counters marked the enemy, and he then indicated an assault on the north-east corner, two more stretched along the eastern wall at intervals, and a major effort on the northern wall.

"They could draw back from the assaults in the south, in this situation, and the one here at the angle prevents moving reinforcements along the wall."

"Fair point, Berlien," Cair Andros acknowledged. "The other option?"

"I put one platoon on the north wall, one on the east wall, and one as reserve. One squad of each on watch at all times, at night – four hour shifts each, say – to take advantage of their night vision. Snipe who they can, preferably officers or steersmen. Werewolves as shock reserve – in and out – then the cavalry to hit afterwards."

The uruk shrugged. "The auxiliaries don't have the numbers for a standing fight, but they can break up formations. As for the dispositions of the human units, you'll have to work that out for yourself."

"Well, that's clear enough." Cair Andros pored over the map for a moment. "Berlien, could you place your men at the corner tower? I recall they're a little less armoured than most of our forces, so they're best not placed in view of archery at the assault itself. Now..."

* * *

><p>Frodo Baggins lay awake, staring at the ceiling as rain pattered down outside.<p>

It was all a little much, for a hobbit of good means and good family from the Shire. Adventures were told of in story and song, but somehow none of the stories ever mentioned the long weeks of waiting for something to happen.

On the other hand, the brief periods of sheer terror weren't exactly great either.

And there was the Ring. Ever since the Council of Elrond, it had been... aware, somehow. Almost like it was watching him. Or maybe it always had been, and now he was aware of it.

And just a few days ago, there had been that sharp stab of phantom pain. Twice in a half-hour, each time tingling along his wound from the Morgul-blade... then nothing. The oppressive feeling of being observed had faded a little, as well.

He broke off from his woolgathering to notice that a faint blue light was illuminating the room.

Reaching to his bedside, he carefully drew Sting. The elven blade slid clear of the sheath with barely a whisper, letting its blue light fill the whole room, and he pulled his blankets off to free his movement.

Sting grew brighter for a long moment, then steadied. A faint knock came to the door.

"Who is it?" Frodo asked, pitching his voice to avoid waking his friends.

"Lurtz. Is this a bad time?"

"No, don't worry." Frodo pulled a cloak on, and walked carefully to the door. "I'm not asleep anyway."

"I was," Sam muttered sleepily.

Frodo winced. "Sorry, Samwise."

"Just let me get back to it, mister Frodo."

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry for the lateness of the hour," Lurtz confided in a low voice some minutes later. "I wanted to discuss the potential need for evacuation with you."<p>

Frodo nodded, placing the shimmering blue steel-flame that was Sting on the library table. "Why now?"

"...maybe just a feeling. But I think it should be sorted out." Lurtz nodded towards Sting. "I have described you and your weapon to the fleetest of our auxiliaries – a were by the name of Long-paw, with a sergeant's rank stripes on each haunch. If the city is in danger of falling, find him, and he has consented to carry you to Minas Tirith."

The logic was clear, of course – if the Ring fell into enemy hands, all was lost. But Frodo felt uncomfortable at the idea of abandoning his friends – and most of the Fellowship – and that showed on his face.

"I know, lad." Lurtz sighed. "Goes against the grain. But... well, it has to be done. And yes, we did need to discuss this like thieves in the night."

At Frodo's querying look, he elaborated. "You can't learn by torture what someone never knew in the first place. I don't know the route, nobody else knows the plan, and if it comes to it I'll do my damnedest to die before capture."

* * *

><p>"Damn rain..." Edel muttered, squinting into the splattering downpour. "You see anything?"<p>

"No-fukkin-thing, eltee," one of his uruks sighed. With a clack, he worked the action of his rifle – there was no round chambered, it was just to relieve frustration. "You sure this is the morning? Can't see rightly _how_."

"I'm sure," Edel replied, grinning. "It's dark enough to be the night, I know, but-"

A spiteful _bzz_ came out of the night, transfixing him with an arrow to the throat.

"Fuck!" the trooper blurted, as Edel toppled soundlessly back off the wall. Another arrow glanced off his helmet, and he dove for the cover of the crenulations.

A glance over the wall revealed rafts black with orcs and men – over a dozen of them, and far too close. Some of them were already swinging up jury-rigged scaling ladders.

"Alarm!" he shouted. "Boats at the north wall!"

* * *

><p>"<em>The Shadow is our lord, his wings are over us, only the Lord of the Rings may see in this dark, the Shadow is our lord..."<em>

Rekkava watched the better of his remaining mages sustain the cloak of shadow over the assault force. Guttural syllables rolled from a hoarse throat, and flecks of red and yellow appeared occasionally in wide, staring eyes as the Black Numenorean man channelled the power of a god through the body of a mere mortal.

Abruptly, there was the faint _boom_ of one of the strange rhy-fuls. Then another, and another.

"Stop!" he ordered, and the mage collapsed, spent. A medic hurried over.

"He will live, lord," the orc reported, after a cursory examination. "His heart still beats, and his pulse is strong."

"Tell me when he can cast again," Rekkava rapped out, and strode from he tent.

In the minute or so the examination had taken, the sound of firing from the walls had intensified, and the clash of steel on steel began to accompany it.

"Favoured of Sauron!" he shouted. "Our lord has taken us unto the wall! Now we must prove ourselves worthy, and come over it! For the Eye!"

With a roar, the two thousand soldiers forming the rest of his brigade answered. _For the Eye!_

* * *

><p>Occasional gunfire flashed in the dim light, the yellow-red flashes highlighting soldiers desperately grappling hand-to-hand in the slick rain. The militia holding the north wall were startled, but fighting in defence of their homes, and the guns firing in their support counted for a lot.<p>

Still, numbers were beginning to tell.

"Where the fik is the rest of the company?" Moritz shouted to no-one in particular, slamming home another round in his rifle and shooting down a Black Numenorean officer with a bullet to the jaw. "Sonofa-"

As he dove for cover, a spear probed through the loophole he'd been using. The uruk kicked out behind him, feeling a snap and a scrape of pain as the spear-haft snapped and stuck in the hole, then turned over and pulled his revolver from where it had fallen as men and orcs rushed the tower door.

Four bullets killed the first four to pass the thick iron-strapped oak, and then the retorts of another revolver signalled that at least one other Isengarder was giving him support from the upper floors of the tower. Moritz seized the opportunity, putting his shoulder to the wood and pushing.

The door was half-way closed when it stuck on one of the bodies. Moritz cursed again, took a step, and hauled at the limp orc to get him out of the way of the door closing.

_BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM._ Pause. _BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM._ Pause. _BAM-BAM-_

Someone screamed upstairs. Fuck, there went his fire support. Moritz stuck the revolver around the edge of the door as he pushed, snapped off two shots, then snatched his hand back as the door finally closed. A heavy weight thumped against it, then stopped.

It took only a moment to check the latches were in place, and he had enough presence of mind to move the heavy wooden bar into the slots.

"What a ratfuck..."

The uruk slumped against the door for a few seconds, legs feeling like jelly, then forced himself up again and headed for the upper floors.

At least he could make it hard for the Mordor men coming over the wall.

* * *

><p>"We can't commit any more of our reserve," Aragorn said calmly. "There's still most of a brigade out there, and we <em>need<em> to know where they're going to attack."

"I know!" Lurtz replied, half-shouting. After a moment, he sighed. "I know, but my men are dying there..."

"So are mine." Cair Andros scowled. "I don't like it either, but we need reserves-"

A messenger hurried in, clothes sopping wet. "Movement to the east! Large numbers, close to the walls."

"How many, man!" the lord of the town demanded.

"At least a thousand – possibly more."

"Well, here they come..." Gimli said, adjusting his axe. "Let's go get 'em!"

* * *

><p>BLAM.<p>

Moritz worked his lever, hearing the tinkle of the brass landing on the already cartridge-strewn floor, and reached for another round.

There were none in the upper loops of his webbing, making him scrabble for a moment. Pragmatically, he paused his reloading drill to check, and hissed through his teeth. Seventeen rounds left.

More and more Mordor troops were streaming over the wall. The towers on both sides of the penetration were taking their toll – he, another rifleman, and a half dozen or so archers in this one, along with a number of swordsmen defending the entry points, and an unknown number in the next one over – but it was clearly not enough, and he only had enough bullets for another few minutes.

There was a brief, immensely loud howl, an antiphonal sound that slapped off the stonework, and then screams from below.

* * *

><p>The spearmen in the front ranks of the Mordor forces forming up below the wall were ready for some kind of mounted countercharge – it made sense, after all – but their tactics were ready for horses.<p>

Wargs were smarter than horses, and attacked differently. When confronted by a wall of steel points sufficient to discourage a horse, wargs would slow, crouch and leap – attacking as their instincts told them to.

Eleven werewolves, the _actual_ attacking force, had discipline sufficient to plan. They jumped at a full run, sailing clean over the startled spearmen and landing with a crash on the sword-armed infantry behind.

It took precious seconds for the Mordor troops to readjust, in which time the auxiliaries reaped a bloody toll. One of them went down in return to a lucky sword-blow to the throat, and the rest all bled from many cuts and stabs when they leapt clear again, but their job was done.

The reserve cavalry hit their disordered targets riding boot-to-boot at a full gallop, spears down, and the impact left the Mordor infantry reeling.

For a moment, they hovered on the verge of breaking. But the wall behind them was a forceful reminder that there was no easy retreat, and they held.

For Captain Berlien, this was a distraction he could ill afford. He felt he could win a standing fight, but not quickly or easily, and the roar from behind him sounded like another assault party had gained the parapet.

* * *

><p>"Push them, you dogs! Push them!" Rekkava shouted, as more and more orcs and men climbed the assault ladders around the gate. "They're breaking – push them!"<p>

One of the gate towers was resisting all his efforts to get in, the defenders reaping a bloody toll with axe and knife and sword. But the other was made of less stern stuff, and a red-eye pennant waved from the window.

Then, with a creaking of wooden crankshafts, the gate began to swing slowly open.

"This is it, lads!" he called over the din of battle. "For Sauron!"

* * *

><p>"You are the one I was told of," the werewolf said with conviction, looking at Sting.<p>

Frodo turned, startled. "I – I was going to the wall..."

"Commander says we must go," the huge canine insisted. "To leave friends is hard, but all the world dies if we do not go."

Trumpet signals blared from the east wall. Two long, three short – _fall back_.

"But..." Frodo hesitated.

"Mister Frodo?" Sam asked, coming down the stairs with a frying pan in his hand. "What's going on?"

Frodo glanced at him, then looked back at the werewolf – Long-paw. "Can you carry two?"

Long-paw bared his teeth, and ground them for a moment. "If I must. Hurry."

Decision crystallized, and Frodo began chivvying Sam on. "Hurry, Samwise. Get on!"

"Are we running away, mister Frodo?" Sam inquired.

"I think we are," Frodo replied, sadly. "But I think we have to."

* * *

><p>"How many?" Aragorn asked, as soon as the citadel doors were closed.<p>

"I've got fifty-one troopers inside," Lurtz supplied. "But we're all running low on ammo. I don't know how many are left in the towers. Most of our wargs are all right, but we're down two auxiliaries."

"I only saw one go down," Berlien said, hesitantly.

"As for you?" Lurtz ignored the comment, turning to the commander of archers.

"As for you, I am down to below half strength. Though, again, I suspect many are in the towers."

"Two hundred forty-three militia are in the citadel, along with eighty-nine regular swords and forty-one spears."

Berlien spoke next. "I lost fourteen men, and another thirty horses. Many of my men got back here riding double."

"And we are down two of the hobbits, as well as Legolas and Gimli, who went to the gate tower," Aragorn concluded. "Well, as long as we hold the citadel and retain ammunition Cair Andros is untenable as a crossing for the enemy."

"I bet our orphans are making it hard for the Mordor troops on top of that," Lurtz commented grimly. "Aragorn, a word?"

* * *

><p>Despite the prompt request, it took a few minutes before the uruk and the king could get a moment alone together to talk.<p>

"I sent Frodo off on a werewolf," Lurtz began. "He shouldn't be captured."

"Good work," Aragorn said firmly, surprising the recon commander. Noticing this, Aragorn smiled. "If the Ring is lost, all this is for nothing. I support your decision."

"Thank you, Aragorn." Lurtz' voice was fierce. "I wondered-"

Both cocked their heads at the same time.

"What was that?"

* * *

><p>"Come on, Sam!" Frodo grunted, as they heaved at the gate capstan. Long-paw's back bent almost into a bow as they hauled the main west gate open by dint of extreme effort.<p>

After almost a full minute of heaving and straining, the capstan locked as the gates reached their limit.

"Right," Frodo said, panting. "Right. Now, we should head west and south. Towards Minas Tirith."

"Are you sure?"

"We can't cross the great river here, Sam," Frodo pointed out. "And Gondor is safer than anywhere else we could go – Boromir and Gandalf are there."

"Right."

Long-paw led the way downstairs, then stopped just before they entered the gate tunnel itself.

He sniffed. Then put his ear to the ground.

"What?" Frodo asked, alarmed. "More attackers?"

"No," Long-paw said softly. "That is not orcs. That is horsemen."

* * *

><p>"Bring up a battering ram!" Rekkava ordered, almost dancing with frustration at the sight of the defiant white tree flying over the central citadel. "We are so <em>close!<em>"

The ground trembled slightly.

"What was that?" someone asked.

"Shut up!" Rekkava demanded, shoving someone towards the battering ram. "Get the door down! Now!"

A deep horn-blast sounded.

Rekkava barely had time to turn before four éored, the last of the muster of Rohan, cannoned into his flank with Éomer One-Arm at their head. Unformed, focused single-mindedly on driving for the door, and unexpectedly struck at their moment of victory, the Mordor brigade dissolved into panic.

* * *

><p>"That was a bloody near run thing," Berlien muttered, a few hours later.<p>

The body of his lord, Cair Andros, had been found in the gate tower that had fallen to the Mordor forces. He was just one of a butcher's bill of well over three hundred dead and several hundred more severely wounded, as well as thirty Rohirrim unhorsed by their mad dash across the ford in dim overcast light.

"War's like that," Gimli ventured. "Either you win easy, or it's the fight of your life."

"What about losing?"

"Ah." Gimli grinned. "Not done any of that yet. You tend to be dead."

"Suppose."

A dragoon cantered up to him. "Sir! You might want to see this, sir."

* * *

><p>"Of all the places to run into <em>him<em> again," Aragorn said softly. "Where was he?"

The creature thrashed, pulling on the chain holding him in the cell. "Where is Precious? Thieves took it!"

"Damnedest thing." A Ranger shrugged. "He was in the roof of that tower on the north wall – the one they cleared – and we looked in all the rooms to make sure there was no-one left, and he was in one of the storage rooms, fast asleep."

"What do we do with him, sire?" Berlien asked.

"I don't know yet. I may ask Gandalf for his advice."

* * *

><p>Two orcs on wargs rode up to the village of Nulnen, reining in their mounts in a spatter of dark, ashy soil.<p>

"Followers of the Eye!" one called. "A great victory over the mewling pups of Gondor!"

A ragged cheer went up, from the various orcs and men at market.

"Our army, led by the strongest servants of the Immortal Sauron, Lord of the Rings and Lord of the World, met the Gondorian foe in combat on the fields of Pelennor and overran their pathetic defence, before harrying them back to the city and taking it by storm!"

Another cheer.

"But this is not the end of the war. The craven ruler-in-stead of Minas Tirith fled to the Fiefdoms, the lands west of Minas Tirith, and even now musters an army to deny Sauron his rightful place as ruler of the world. Many horse-men of Rohan muster to the call of their king, to fall on the flanks of our grand host and kill who they can!"

The other orc, until now silent, stepped down from his mount. His boots hit the soil with a faint _thud._

"I will not allow the men of the west who cling to their fading power and the shadow of a long-dead kingdom to resist Sauron's might," he said, slowly. "I seek like-minded men, orcs, any who will follow my banner. March with my host, overwhelm the west! Defeat their subtle sorceries and the scraps of magic they still possess with an avalanche of steel and wood and strong, holy soldiers!"

* * *

><p>"I don't understand," one orc confided to another later that afternoon.<p>

The second orc looked at the first. "What?"

"Well, if we're winning, if Minas Tirith is already destroyed, why do we need a bigger army?" the first asked logically. "The army already has over five hundred thousand under arms. And our allies from the south and east are each worth ten westerners in a fight – or so they say."

The second looked slightly surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. Instinctively, he looked around for potential eavesdroppers. "Shut up, or you'll get us both into trouble!"

"If I can't talk about this to my brother, who can I talk to?" the first grinned. "Look, I'm not saying anything, except that I'm confused."

The second grimaced. "I don't know – I don't think about that sort of thing, and neither should you!"

He pointed southwards, to the broad plains of Núrn that stretched away to the Sea of Núrnen over fifteen miles distant. Then east, north, and west, taking in the whole sweep of Mordor's most fertile region. The breadbasket of the Dark Land.

Finally, he pointed out the many plumes of smoke rising from the plateau of Gorgoth, to the northwest. The beating heart of Mordor's industrial might.

"What could stand against us?"

"I don't know," the first orc said, quietly. "And that's what worries me."

* * *

><p>Two days later, the village of Nulnen again turned out to see something new.<p>

One of their number, nailed upside-down to a tree by his ankles, for 'spying for the West'.

* * *

><p>Saruman spread one of his printed maps out on a large oaken table. "As I see it, we have several areas of focus."<p>

The various others in the council – the Steward and his two sons, Gandalf, King and Prince of Rohan, two of Gondor's generals, and the Isengard Colonels – studied the map for a long minute.

"Can we make notations?" Boromir asked. At a nod from Saruman, he picked up a stick of charcoal from the side. "Right. So, we have control over most of the west bank of the Anduin."

"Aside from Osgiliath the City, I think," his brother contributed. "How is that going?"

"Half my regiment is containing the city," Raza said, pointing to the appropriate locations. "There's ten Éored in support, as well, so that's basically contained – if we have to abandon, then my uruks can ride double with the Rohirrim and get back to standoff distance."

"And I have a recent report from Cair Andros to give." Saruman smiled. "The Mordor brigade attempting to overwhelm it took the walls, with heavy casualties including the lord of the fortress, but Eomer reached the city before they could consolidate their hold and broke their assault."

Theoden exhaled, relieved.

"So, defensively, we are in good shape," Denethor summarized. "What of offence?"

"Troop shortages will remain a problem," Faramir admitted. "We don't have the numbers to face Mordor or Harad in the field, not while the threat of Umbar remains, and even if it were mitigated we might have to lean heavily on the Isengard troops – none of our other units has that same standoff power."

"On that front, I may be able to help," Saruman said. "I think it would be possible to set up a production line – either in Isengard or, preferably, in Minas Tirith – producing muzzle-loading rifles. They would be nowhere near as effective in terms of rate of fire, but you would be able to manufacture the ammunition yourselves – hence reducing the logistical burden the railway must carry from the foundries of Isengard."

That it would also reduce the military dependence – and imbalance – suffered by Gondor went unsaid.

"As for the Rohirrim, there is still a role for shock cavalry, but it might make sense to convert your mounted archer to carabiners, and potentially supply revolvers. I will see what the capacity of Isengard is to produce such a weapons surplus."

"Artillery?" Boromir asked.

"That is a trickier subject. It would perhaps be best to simply manufacture more Anduin guns, as the ammunition must come from Isengard in any case – unless you accept muzzle-loading guns. Again, these are slower firing, though you may wish to have some for defence."

"This bears further discussion," Denethor muttered. "Later, I think?"

Saruman nodded. "Let us handle generalities for now. So, Umbar is one pressing concern. What are the others?"

"There are five broad potential combat points, possibly more defending on definition," Boromir stated. "First, Osgiliath. I lean towards setting up an encirclement on the east bank of the Anduin, cutting it off from reinforcement, with one of the infantry regiments and Rohirric support again. Let them break their teeth attacking, or starve into surrender."

He looked to Saruman. "Can you close the river?"

"Two of my guns and two rapidguns are set up on each of the city – north and south – and they command much of the water. I can't close it, not completely, but I can stop regular supply runs from up- or down-river," Raza answered for him.

"And if we encircle on the east, that cuts them off completely." Faramir nodded. "But we must move quickly – keep them off balance. We should send the force to Cair Andros as soon as possible."

"Agreed." Saruman gestured to Boromir. "Next?"

"The Black Gate." Boromir winced. "Nasty area for defence."

"On the contrary, it's excellent." Saruman smiled grimly. "I believe that Kerkú can speak better for the situation."

"Right." Kerkú straightened unconsciously. "First off, right near the Black Gate it's level terrain. Excellent field of fire for our artillery and our rifles, we can shred them on that ground. Secondly, we can pull off a shoot-and-scoot like we did against the Mumaks. Keep firing until the enemy's not far off their maximum range, limber up, run off. And if they keep pressing all the way to the Dead Marshes, there _are_ trails through that and we can keep an eye on them with the crows. And if there's anything more futile than trying to charge through a swamp while under fire, I can't imagine one."

Several of the Western commanders were nodding, as they applied what they knew of gunpowder weapons to the situation Kerkú was describing.

"So, you can bloody any sally, and retreat in good order," Gandalf summarized.

"Not certain of it, but pretty confident." Kerkú nodded.

"Well, we may as well assign you to that duty, then." Saruman exchanged a glance with his fellow wizard. "No objections?"

None were raised.

"Continue, please, Boromir."

"Third is the line Osgiliath-Morgul Vale-Minas Morgul and into Mordor itself." Boromir tapped the map. "This is the logical pass to use to invade Mordor. But that means it'll be fiendishly well defended."

"Maybe, and maybe not," Faramir replied. "Remember, a week ago they were launching a grand offensive to crush us. It's not as though they were expecting us to go on the _attack._"

"Be that as it may, Minas Morgul is still one of the strongest fortresses in the world." Boromir looked over at Saruman. "Unless the wizard's bag of tricks has more surprises?"

"We have not reached the bottom of the barrel yet." Saruman chuckled. "Masonry fortifications are highly vulnerable to the blast effects of gunpowder – fire may undo stone, in other words. Minas Morgul may take effort, but it can be breached. And it may well be that its position athwart a mountain pass may prove detrimental..."

"Right. So that's a possible valid target for offensive action." Boromir noted that on the map. "Finally, there's Harondor and Umbar – one by land, the other by sea."

"Umbar might be the best target to attack first," Saruman mused. "It is in many ways as true an heir to Numearnor as Gondor itself, so it might even be possible to turn it to our side – thus releasing much manpower, not only from the south coast of Gondor's fiefdoms but also from the prisoners taken over the years."

Those words had met with a certain resistance from the Gondor men in the room, but Gandalf was nodding.

"In my years in the south, I found Umbar a city of many contrasts. To them, it is still the Kinstrife, but this seems born as much of ignorance as hate."

"Such a perception would be weakened, were the King of Gondor to declare no desire to annex Harondor," Boromir ventured.

Denethor's face clouded, and he shook his head. "I... I am aware that..." he took a breath. "That _Aragorn_ is the closest to a legitimate heir the kingdom has. But..."

Beregond spoke up. "You fear that the closest to an heir is still far from a king."

"I do, loyal Beregond." Denethor sighed heavily. "My judgement is impaired, from so long under Sauron's subtle thrall."

A shiver ran around the group, as he admitted it openly. There had been rumour, but no more than rumour.

"No more," Gandalf pronounced. "The shadow is gone from your heart."

"Yet the twilight lingers." The Steward looked from one of his sons to the other. "Boromir. You are the one who would have my seat, and you have met this princeling. What is he?"

"Dunedan, to the core of him," Boromir said after a moment. "He's a ranger by skill and temperament, working on the outskirts of civilization if that is what is needed to keep the homes safe."

Denethor nodded, silently taking it all in.

"As for how he is at war... skilled in battle, slow to anger, and steely when roused. Not for him the fire of a blood-eyed berserker rage like that of Rohan, but a banked white heat like the heart of a furnace. Controlled."

"A point in his favour," Denethor admitted grudgingly. "Gondor has few enough trained men to spend on slaking bloodlust, but nor can we afford to shirk battle."

"As a leader of men, well, I said I would follow him and I meant it." Boromir met the gaze of his father. "This is a man who others will follow. Elf, dwarf, hobbit, man, wizard... and wherever he leads."

"Lurtz' messages spoke well of him," Saruman added. "I daresay Lurtz was most impressed."

Some of the Isengard officers chuckled.

"The commander of Isengard's recon riders," Boromir explained in aside. "Solid, ah, uruk."

Denethor sat for a long minute.

"What has happened in Cair Andros since the battle?" he asked, directing his question to the White Wizard.

"Aragorn has assumed control of the garrison," Saruman reported. "He has mentioned looking through the records to determine who holds title to the fortress, and is improving the defences against further attack."

"I see." There was a deep sigh, and then Denethor shook his head. "I fear I cannot. After so long as ruler of Gondor, it sits ill to become another's servant."

There was a rustling movement from much of the council, as many of the members shifted uneasily on their feet.

"Father." Faramir took a step forward, almost unconsciously. "The authority of the Steward derives ultimately _from_ our position as caretakers."

To the surprise of many, Denethor chuckled. "No fear, Faramir. I will not burn my city and my people on a pyre of my own self-aggrandizement. Upon the arrival of the returned King of Gondor, I shall step down in favour of Boromir."

The Captain-General of Gondor gaped.

"Though, if the King prefers to cause the office to lapse, I will not force you to take a title only to lose it the same day," Denethor added. Then he chuckled.

"Father?" Faramir asked, completely wrong-footed.

"Look at you all!" Denethor started to laugh. "Like watchmen who have suddenly discovered that the man causing a disturbance is the son of a lord! Do not think me _too_ set in my ways, men of the west!"

A relieved gust of laughter swept the room.

"I think the sense is that we should move southwards first, at least offensively," Faramir said, once things had settled down. "Are there any dissenters?"

"I'd prefer a quick strike towards the Gates," Geren said with a frown. "If we let them solidify their defenses, then it'll be a nightmare fighting through that."

"It'll be a nightmare anyway," Kerkú replied. "We need the railway to be able to project power very far – I shot off half my ammunition for the whole regiment in one day - which means we're for a delay anyway, and I'd rather close on Minas Morgul with Gondorian troops at my back than alone. Umbar's an easier nut to crack."

Geren subsided, still frowning.

"Anyone else?"

No other reply came.

"Right, on to specifics. Kerkú, was it? I believe you were headed for the Black Gate. King Theoden, who would be best assigned to support that blocking force?"

"Elfhelm, I think, with five Éored. He deserves the independent command, and..."

* * *

><p>In a large rifle range under Isengard, two uruks and one human consulted a list.<p>

"Right, number 53," the human said, picking up an 11mm cartridge. He placed it with great care into the chamber of one of the old pre-Limlight pistols – fixed to a heavy stand in the middle of the range – and closed it up.

"What do you think?" one uruk asked the other. "This one going to be it?"

The second uruk shrugged, and took up the string attached to the hammer. "Okay, clear the area!"

Once the range was checked twice, he took up the slack, easing the hammer back from a distance of ten yards.

The first uruk continued watching from behind a fine-meshed barrier. Everyone else ducked behind blast barriers – after no fewer than six experiments had violently blown the pistol used to pieces, they had a healthy respect for their work.

"Firing!"

There was a flat _crack._

After a second or so, just to give any shrapnel time to land, heads cautiously showed themsleves over the barriers.

"Well, it didn't blow up," someone remarked.

The human walked over and carefully levered open the chamber. "Well, no real damage..."

"No smoke, neither," the first uruk reported. "Well, a bit, but..."

"Which is good," his compatriot nodded. "Now, where's the hole?"

A few seconds were enough to identify it – the heavy 11mm bullet was brass-tipped, rather than hollow-pointed, and had bit deeply into the wooden backstop.

"So far so good. That's deeper than we normally get. Right, I think we're going to go to stage two with this one."

* * *

><p>Saruman stood atop the White City, on the 'prow' of the great embrasure, and stared unseeing into the night as Central flicked holograms across his eyes.<p>

**Observe.**

-a hellscape. Earth churned by explosive shells, with shrapnel shells flaying anything that moved. Long ribbons of – toothed wire? Lay across much of the ground, with the few breaks covered by continuous-firing weapons like the _gatling_ or the _maxim_ that had appeared in earlier images.

A force of Uruks emerged from a fold in the ground, moving forwards at a steady jog with their Enfield-type rifles held at the port. Slashing artillery fire punched holes in their ranks, and rifles winked from a fortlet just ahead, cutting them down by the score.

**Observe.**

A great rattling mass of metal, made of boilerplate riveted together, trundled over the horrible cratered ground on a course of linked metal platforms it laid before itself. Artillery kicked up brief poplar-shapes of dirt around it, and around others like it, but the shrapnel and bullets rattled and pinged off the hull.

One of the metal boxes was directly hit by a shell, which slewed it to a halt, and it belched a cloud of oily smoke before exploding. But the others moved steadily onwards, and rifle-armed defenders began to abandon their trenches and run as they surmounted the defensive line, crushing the toothed wire.

**Tanks. They are the solution to the greater strength of the defensive.**

Saruman nodded, unconsciously. _They are like armoured cars? You have shown me those as well._

**Better, though slower. The key tenets to design are-**

_Later. I still need sleep, and I must check in on Isengard._

The moment he opened the magical connection to Manig, he became aware that the crow was waiting impatiently for the contact.

_Lord Wizard,_ Manig began, _the engineering section wishes to report that tests on composition 53 indicate it is suitable._

Composition 53 was one of the tests into nitroglycerine-based powders – 'smokeless' powders – to supplement and ultimately replace the gunpowder he had been using to this point_._

_Very good news!_ Saruman sent back. _I will inspect their achievements when I return next week. For now, convey my appreciation._

The contact lasted only a few more minutes, since there was little else to report.

As soon as Manig was done, and the connection closed, Central amplified what Saruman had known about the experiments.

**Composition 53. Analogue to guncotton, made using flax, mixed with nitroglycerine. A suitable propellant for high velocity rifles.**

"It is good news indeed," Saruman said, softly. "Can we make enough?"

**Difficult to quantify. Observation of methods developed to produce composition 53 would allow for better analysis. Preliminary analysis – 83% +/- 5% for equipping marksmen by the end of the year, 51% +/- 10% for all rifles, 22% +/- 4% for artillery pieces. Development of automatic weapons is also possible using these powders, but would increase significantly the draw on the available supply.**

* * *

><p>Paws padded softly in the halls of Cair Andros' castle library.<p>

"Oh!" Frodo said, as Long-paw came into his line of sight. "Good day, sir... Long-paw, was it?"

"No sir," the werewolf replied. "Just Long-paw."

For a moment, to Frodo's eyes, the huge animal – person, in truth – seemed to be groping for what to say.

"What you here for?" he asked eventually.

"Oh, I was looking at the maps." Frodo shuffled to one side as he would to allow another in, then felt like kicking himself for forgetting the shape of his unexpected visitor. Quite to his surprise, however, Long-paw accepted the gesture in the spirit it was intended, and bent himself slightly awkwardly between bookshelf and table to examine the map of the middle reaches of the Anduin.

Long-paw's gaze flicked north for a moment, towards Mirkwood (off the edge of the map, for the most part) and then to the island in mid-river. Extending a paw, he carefully tapped the island with one claw. "We here?"

"We are, that's right." Frodo nodded. "I wondered about how we'd be able to get into Mordor, you see."

Long-paw's eyes roamed over the map, a frown settling on his features. Several times, he seemed on the point of speaking, but ultimately refrained.

"Where this?" he said eventually, tapping near the south-western edge of the map.

"That's Minas Tirith," Frodo said in surprise. "It's labelled, right there."

Long-paw barked laughter for a moment. "Would help if could read."

"You can't read?" Frodo asked, shocked. Irrationally, this surprised him every bit as much as the unusual literacy of Lurtz months before.

"Not chance in forest." Long-paw shrugged. "Not need."

"Well, we'd better fix that," Frodo decided. "That is, if you wouldn't mind."

"Would be good," the werewolf allowed. "Would help. Proper for pack to help pack."

"Pack?"

"Talked to Lurtz-captain. He says would be good for me to stay with you. If you want." Long-paw shrugged his head. "_I_ want, but not need."

Frodo paused for a moment before speaking. "I think I might need to check with Aragorn," he said, hedging. "But I don't think I'd mind too much. Sam liked you too, I think."

"Sam other hobbit?" Long-paw checked. At Frodo's nod, the scout bared his teeth in a careful grin. "Loyal hobbit. Good."

"So many strange things have happened since I left the Shire," Frodo said, half to himself. "But this is one they'll never believe."

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

I'm sorry it took so long...

What got me writing this again, as opposed to something else, was the combination of now having a trope page (why not go contribute?) and winning a Turtledove from alternate history dot com.


	12. Chapter 12

Elrond of Rivendell watched impassively as the first crate was opened.

"There you are," the uruk lieutenant said, stepping back smartly. "Twenty-five rifles in that crate, twenty-five in the next one over. Two hundred and fifty rounds per rifle, in the other four crates. And fifty inert cartridges, for reloading drill."

"My thanks, then." The elf lord gestured, and his son Elladan stepped forward.

Elladan picked up the top rifle, inspected it slowly and carefully, then turned to the lieutenant. "Demonstrate, please."

"My pleasure." The uruk removed his own rifle from the sheath. "This here is the trigger safety – it prevents the rifle firing when you're not ready for it to. It goes in here, and is made ready to fire thus."

He then worked the lever, opening the chamber and revealing that it was empty. "We carry them unloaded, unless we expect trouble. Scouts tend to carry them loaded. To load, the round has to be pushed down into the chamber, like so."

Elladan watched as the brass round slid down the ramp into the chamber, and then the block was raised to seal the breech.

"This gun is now ready to fire. But, for safety, treat them _all_ as ready to fire unless you've got the breech open and a cleaning rod going from there to the barrel. Firing is simple, just pull the trigger."

The hammer clicked on one of the dummy rounds.

"Pull the lever like this to open the chamber, which ejects the spent round. A new round goes in the same way as the first one, return the lever to the closed position, and fire again.

Another click.

"Now, aiming. This is a ladder sight..."

* * *

><p>The birds took flight as a series of <em>cracks<em> echoed from the mountains around Rivendell.

"Well, that's better than most recruits do..." the lieutenant said, squinting through the powder-smoke haze. "That'll be enough for most fights, and you'll get better with experience. 'course, you can't get accuracy better than the weapon will manage, but that looks pretty close."

Elladan nodded, coughing, and waved away the clouds of smoke. "Is it always this smoky?"

"Yep," the uruk replied. "Worse the more gunners there are, and better in more wind. Bit better if it's cold, too, if the air's still. It rises."

"Like wood-smoke from a fire. I see." Elladan safed the rifle, hands moving with care on the unfamiliar catch, and grounded it. "What about the bayonets?"

"Well, that's more in the way of how they're to be used for infantry, really. They attach like _so_, and then it's more like using a short spear than anything. But as you lads are mostly cavalry, you'll want to use your swords, I'd imagine."

The lieutenant then frowned. "Actually, that reminds me. We should make sure your horses can be steady when they hear the thunder of the guns."

"I am sure they will," Elladan said calmly. "Elven steeds are wiser than other horses, and they will not balk when they have had a chance to become used to it. We will stable them near the firing... range?" He checked the unfamiliar usage, and received a nod. "That should work."

"Well, it's your funeral if it doesn't work..." The uruk shrugged. "Right, we'll call that a day, then. I'm eager to get home to Isengard, to tell you the truth."

Elladan raised an eyebrow.

"It's cold up here," he received by way of explanation. "Much colder than I'm used to. It's warm all year round in the tunnels under Isengard."

"I see."

* * *

><p>A crow flared his wings, shedding most of his speed, and landed on Marek's shoulder.<p>

"What is it?" he asked, turning his head. His warg grumbled as his weight shifted, but maintained her steady pace.

"Sir – Dorwinion has fallen."

Marek blinked. "_What?_"

After a moment, he shook his head. "No, I heard, and I imagine you'd have corrected yourself if you misspoke. Oh, _brilliant..._ did you see how it was done?"

"I... believe I did, though I don't fully understand."

"Right. Okay, come with me, I'll go tell Brand."

* * *

><p>"That's one of the most... <em>audacious<em> moves I've heard of in a long while," the Earl of Ilanin said, once the tale was told.

"That hardly captures the scale of it, though, does it?" Prince Brand asked, staring at the map laid out on a small trestle table. "I _thought_ he was withdrawing fast..."

"Hell of a risk," Marek added. "If they hadn't been taken in, and had decided to hold out..."

"Victories open doors." Earl Ilanin punched his fist into his other palm with a loud _smack_. "Even fake ones."

Kadphises, having been repelled at the Battle of the Ford, had headed at maximum speed back to Dorwinion the city with most of his cavalry and as many infantry as he could fit on carts and riding alongside his cavalry. Once there, he'd essentially run a colossal bluff – bringing out the luxuries from his own tent as though they were war booty from the Dale army, casually showing off every scrap of Dale war materiel he'd captured on campaign so far, even having the army's fabric workers make up two dozen ersatz 'captured' Dale banners.

The image had been of an army that had won a victory against the relieving force, albeit at considerable cost, and the nerve of the Dorwinion garrison had broken. They'd managed to get good terms – stack arms, march west, and a week's parole – but their surrender had given Kadphises a city ready to withstand a siege.

After a few more seconds, Brand turned to Marek, all businesslike. "Right. We built that city to withstand a year's siege from the Easterlings. I couldn't break into it in less than six months, with trebuchet. What can your guns do?"

"Not a lot," Marek admitted with a frown. "They'd tear down a low curtain wall in a few days, but we don't have the ammunition to pull that off. We left Isengard with two basic loads – two hundred rounds of ammunition per man, one hundred and fifty per gun, and a reserve for the rapidguns. We're pretty much down to one basic load now, and the types of ammunition for the big guns are a bit mixed – time fuze, impact, cannister."

He squared his shoulders. "Get us over the wall and we'll rip them to shreds, I think. But that's the problem, of course."

"Yes." Brand frowned, then tapped his chin. "And against a sally?"

Marek grinned. "Dog meat."

"Right. Well, the best we can do is to encircle the place, I suppose. Then see what to do next. Oh – Berlin, send out a cavalry squadron to contact the Dorwinion garrison, we can use them and we've got enough weapons to spare. And send a messenger upriver to Ilanin to let them know we're going to need a further shipment of weapons if we're to arm the local militia as we were planning, for the counterstrike..."

* * *

><p>Kadphises stood on the wall of Dorwinion, watching as the Dalesman army approached.<p>

Their cavalry had encircled the city hours before, and after a number of nasty clashes with the damnably effective longbow-armed dragoons the Dale used as their outriders, he'd ordered all the raiding parties back into the walls. He could ill afford to lose cavalry, after all, he had little enough left after the battle further upriver.

But now... the Dale army were blowing their horns, and deploying from line of march into a looser formation which was ready to close up in an instant. Already, there were spades flying as their sword regiments began to dig, forming the foundations for a wall of countervallation and a wall of circumvallation.

The Sahrdhan clenched his fist. If this were happening towards the end of the year, he'd have been laughing – a reinforcement could have been scheduled from the east, and they would have broken the siege before he was in any trouble. As it was, he wasn't sure how it would go.

* * *

><p>"Master sergeant," Prince Brand began.<p>

The sturdy noncom, one of the senior NCOs of the Dorwinion garrison, looked nervously at the retainers seated beside his prince. "Sir, I-"

"No, don't worry," Brand smiled. "No formality. I just want to know one thing, Troop."

The prince leaned forward in his seat. "What _happened_ two days ago?"

"Not sure I ought to say, sir." The master sergeant's hands curled around where his sword would have been, had he not had to surrender it. "I-"

Brand slammed a fist on the table. "Damnit, man," he interrupted, voice low but forceful. "The strongest garrison town in the entire vale gave up without a fight. I want to know _why_, I want to know who screwed up, and most of all, I want to be sure who among you will stand like men in the coming battle!"

The words hung in the air for several seconds.

"Right," Brand said, more calmly. "Now, if you please. When Kadphises arrived, what happened?"

* * *

><p>Drums rolled across the windswept grass.<p>

"Men of Dorwinion," Brand began. "Three days ago, an army from the East approached these walls. That army was one that had been defeated in open battle only days before, by the army you see around you. Yet, when this army arrived, it passed within the walls of your city without struggle, and without casualties."

Brand's voice was almost pleasant. "This is cowardice-in-the-face. This is treason. This is surrendering your city to an enemy unfought, when you had the opportunity to hold until the walls were breached according to the rules and customs of warfare."

There was a slight rustling in the ranks of the former garrison. None spoke.

"The traditional punishment for this failing is decimation." One man in ten selected by lot, and the other nine forced to beat him to death with clubs. "However, as a battle approaches and I have no wish to deprive myself of five hundred men unnecessarily, the sentence is deferred."

"Impress me, and I may not execute punishment."

"However, I must first discuss matters with one of your number. Earl Dorwinion, step forwards."

For a heartbeat, no movement took place. Then, as though he was being dragged, an armoured man stepped forward to stand before his prince.

"Earl." Brand looked the man up and down. "What oath did you swear, to my father?"

The earl's mouth worked. On the second try, he began through dry lips. "Here do I swear fealty and service to King Bard. In peace or war. In living or... dying. Fr… from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death… take me."

Brand nodded. "That is correct."

He drew a small dagger from a sheath on his hip. It was a tiny thing, with a blade barely three inches long.

He passed the weapon to the earl. "Your sentence will be passed in one hour." Brand made eye contact. "You should shave, and prepare to meet death."

Earl Dorwinion swallowed, and nodded jerkily. Then turned towards his tent, and walked off the field, not giving notice to anything around.

* * *

><p>"Why did you do that?" Marek asked, as they pored over a map.<p>

"Sorry?" Brand looked up. "Oh, the earl."

Marek nodded. He'd seen the earl's body taken for burial – a red gash across his throat from ear to ear.

"Well..." Brand stretched. "Disloyalty and treason should be punished with execution, the confiscation of the estates and lands, and the body thrown into an unmarked grave. And what he did _was_ cowardice-in-the-face, which is close enough to treason for such an important fortress I'd have to try him for oath-breaking. But the trial was never held, the sentence never passed."

The prince sighed, looking older. "So he died in a shaving accident before being brought to trial, and as with no sentence he's not legally guilty... his son can inherit."

Marek frowned, considering this. "Seemed to be an awful risk, though. Arming someone who-"

"I knew he wasn't actually treacherous," Brand commented. "But the rule of law applies to everyone – the last thing a ruler can afford to be is arbitrary."

The uruk nodded soberly, absorbing that. It was strange to think in terms of dynasties, rather than individuals...

"Sorry about the distraction," he said eventually. "What about if we place four guns here? Roll them back behind the hill, and approach it like _so_, and they shouldn't be observed until they're run forward to fire. Then..."

* * *

><p>After a short pause, the council of war in Minas Tirith reconvened.<p>

"Assuming we do get these rifles you mention," Boromir began, "who would be the best choice to take them? I mean, should I equip a squad in each company, or..."

"I believe the best option is to make sure battalions are homogenously equipped," Saruman advised. "Any rifle is an effective weapon on its own – with bayonets, the users have both an effective melee weapon and a devastating ranged weapon – and you can use the unconverted units as similarly homogenous units. As for who to convert first..." Saruman frowned, summoning up his knowledge of the forces of Gondor. "My advice is to hold off on re-equipping rangers or blackroot vale men. Rifles are only a little better than an expertly handled longbow, and you can use the longbowmen well enough. No, the best choice might actually be archer militia – and regulars, of course. The ones who use shortbows."

Boromir frowned, then brightened and nodded. "I think I see. They're going to be the ones with good eyesight, at least hopefully, so they can adapt most easily."

"That's correct." Saruman tapped a finger on the stonework. "You should also start raising horses around the sound and fury of gunpowder, because I would also advise equipping some of the knights of Gondor and of Dol Amroth with revolvers in addition to their current weapons."

"But... the revolvers use your rounds, don't they?" Boromir checked. "I thought the aim was to reduce dependence on the forges of Isengard, and allow Gondor to supply her own weaponry."

"Other kinds of cavalry weapon just aren't easy enough to use," Saruman explained. "I can supply some such rounds, but reducing their use is all to the good, you are correct. Similarly, I suspect the better option for artillery would be to use an Isengard artillery train."

"I see." Boromir mulled that over.

Saruman rose to leave.

"Oh, before you go," Boromir said, "did you manage to prise some support free for the expedition to Umbar?"

"Ah, yes." Saruman looked eastwards, out the window high in the White Tower. "Raza's infantry regiment is holding Osgiliath, Kerkú is headed for Cair Andros to reinforce them – and to establish contact with Aragorn – before heading for the Gates, and Mauhúr is retained here as a strategic reserve... but I can certainly give you Geren's regiment. The Stormwind, about thirty down from establishment, and their artillery."

For a moment, Saruman looked off into the distance, as Central painted images over his eyes.

"Remember that they're cavalry, and warg cavalry at that, so they'll take a lot of transports – and talk to his artillery commander, as well. If there's some well-found ships, he could mount the artillery pieces on them to give you a useful punch at sea..."

* * *

><p>"Cap," a soldier whispered. "Cap, el-tee says you should come."<p>

The infantry captain stood, putting his mug of hot milk down on a short table. "Right," he replied, only slightly louder, and slung on his pistol and helmet. "That's lieutenant Grenster?"

"Yes, sir," the soldier replied. "Says there's a boat movin' on the far shore."

"Well, I'll be along in a minute." The captain frowned. "Hmmm... tell the lieutenant that he's to engage if the boat looks to cross before I get there, otherwise wait for me."

"Yessir."

* * *

><p>"Well, Lieutenant?"<p>

"Looks like one of the barges, captain," Grenster replied. "Guess we missed one."

"Or they put one together out of the ruins of the ones we destroyed... right. Gun two, load contact. Take the time to make your shot count... then fire for effect."

The gunners grinned. They'd worked over the section of water around the old bridge several times over the last few days, and by now they knew it well enough to have most of it ranged in.

"Third pillar," the number two man muttered. "That's left half a point... there. Ready to fire."

His superior nodded. "Fire."

The Anduin belched a spearhead of fire and rocked backwards, ran up a curved earthen rampart, and rumbled back down again nearly into battery – saving considerable time on the part of the gun crews, who hauled the gun the final few feet back into battery and began reloading.

"Hit, sir!" Grenster reported, adjusting his telescope. "Straight through the side."

"Hold fire," the captain ordered, before the gun could shoot again. "That's not going to stay afloat, and we need to save the ammo."

"Yessir," the gun commander acknowledged, saluting. "Pleasure working with a man who knows his business."

"The pleasure is mutual, gunner."

* * *

><p>The flickering of firelight a mile or so distant marked the end of another attempt to resupply the cut-off Mordor forces in western Osgiliath.<p>

They wouldn't have time to make many more. The orcs were already eating their own dead, and fights were breaking out even over those unpromising morsels.

* * *

><p>"Ancestors," a dwarf muttered, staring at the plans in front of him. "And I thought the first one was big..."<p>

"Nah, that was a _toy_ compared to this one," a human replied, with a grin. "Right, the good news is, now we've got the pioneer line, we can build this one from several places at once. Blanket first. Okay, we've got about twenty thousand to work on it, so if we start in five places and spread out from those we've got ten work-fronts at once. They should only have to make about eighty miles each, to reach the first base-camp, and once that's set up we can build out towards Cair Andros and Minas Tirith..."

* * *

><p>Karenna adjusted his scimitar-belt, frowning into the darkness.<p>

Nothing. Just like the Dalesmen had done nothing for the last four days.

And with the regular inspections the tossers in charge were insisting on, he couldn't get a bit of stealthy sleep on watch. No, it was four hours for him, then a brief snatched sleep before patrolling the city by day. Impressing on the men of Dorwinion that they were under Rhun control.

_Bloody fucking waste of time_, he thought. _Everyone worth the effort to throw them off the battlements ran off with the garrison._

He reached the end of his wall-pace and turned, heading back along the wall. The Azadan insisted on it. _No man on patrol should be sitting like a sack!_ Though they all just sat in their cozy rooms, in houses, and ate well while the rest of the army were on rations.

At least the rations were large enough. He'd not eaten so well in years-

A red flash out to the west caught his eye – a momentary, firey _spike_ taller than a man, reaching to the heavens.

"What-" he began, turning towards the flaming spear. It was already falling back as he turned.

But there'd been something inside it. Karenna didn't see it very clearly – just a flicker of movement, heading straight up – and didn't really understand it. But now that he looked closer, let the corner of his eyes fall on it, there _was_ a tiny little spark of light headed straight upwards.

It slowed, hung there for a moment-

And the sudden light stabbed needles of pain into his eyes.

Karenna, unlike most of the sentries and wall-walkers, had not paused to gawk. Through chance, or a sense of duty, or just plain unconscious reflex, he'd continued moving, and the arm he flung up to shade his eyes from the actinic glare coming from directly overhead meant his pace checked.

Which saved his life.

* * *

><p>Ugbrag closed one eye as the star shell bloomed overhead. His rifle went from up and resting on his knee, and adjusted minutely to track the target he'd already had a vague idea of.<p>

His left knee was on the wet grass, with the dew soaking through his uniform trousers again. It seemed to be how fighting was going to be, here in the far north.

Mind, it was getting on for summer. Winter was going to be a stone-plated bitch.

When he was sure of his sight picture, he squeezed the trigger.

_Bam._

Around him, others of his company fired their own rifles. No meticulous volley this – the shots were more of an extended crackle, as each uruk fired when they had a target. It sounded like a bundle of dry sticks being broken.

"Ah, bugger," he muttered, as one of the figures on the battlements dove for the floor – his chosen target. "Missed the bastard."

A trumpet snarled.

"_All_ right," the corporal called. "Back to camp, _on_ the double!"

Ugbrag stood, slung his rifle, and fell into a compact column with the other uruks of his squad. That squat box of nine soldiers coalesced with the others of its platoon, and then its company, until over a hundred riflemen were moving back from the east wall of Dorwinion.

Ahead, more rifle shots winked. Single aimed shots, now, as sharpshooters from another company sniped at the men who stood to the walls.

"How'd you do?" an uruk asked him between measured, quick breaths.

"Missed," Ugbrag replied with a wince.

"Happens." The fellow rifleman shrugged. "Bet they won't be so happy to walk the walls _now_, though."

Ugbrag chuckled, then grinned. "Yeah."

* * *

><p>"Alright," Kadphises grated, as the dawn light broke over Dorwinion.<p>

His eyes were pouched with lack of sleep, and there was a hard glitter in his eyes.

"I have had it up to the neck of a horse with these infernal fire-weapons," he began, still with a dangerous calm to his voice. His men, more used to outbursts than this slow-burning anger, shifted uneasily around the map table.

"How many men did we lose?"

"Five hundred," his commander of infantry replied, not looking much more awake himself. "Most of them in the first attack. The second one was halfway through the second shift, so the men up on the walls were... less alert than they could have been – that's why we lost anyone at all that time."

The middle-aged infantry commander fell silent, eyes dropping to the floor. No-one else spoke, trying to avoid the gaze of their commander.

"Five _hundred_," Kadphises repeated. "And most of them dead with holes in their head a deghan could shoot an arrow cleanly through."

He scowled, rubbing his temples. "Okay. We didn't know they had that... silmaril," he said, naming the weapon for the captive stars western legends spoke of. "Now we do. What do we _do_ about it?"

"No patrols?" a Vurzugan suggested. "Keep the men off the walls."

Kadphises whirled. "Fool of a dog! If we do _that_, the westerners can storm the walls by night!"

The luckless noble flinched.

"If I must, I will lose more infantrymen! I will lose five hundred infantrymen every day if it will keep this city in the hands of the Khan!"

"We _cannot_ keep the city in the Khan's hands if we lose five hundred infantrymen a day," the cavalry commander said, clearly. "Our enemy outnumbers us. We must keep enough men ready to defend along the whole line of the wall, or they may storm over all along it."

Kadphises shot a glance at his commanders, then subsided. "Very well. But we must maintain the patrols. Or we are stormed sooner instead of later."

"Um..."

Kadphises' aide, a young man of a good suhrdhan family not yet old enough to ride with the dehgans, raised a hand. "Noble sirs?"

"What is it, youngster?" the cavalry commander asked.

"Well... could we not build wooden shielding to go atop the battlements?"

The aide darted quick glances at his commander as he spoke, then began to speak more boldly as official displeasure did not strike him down. "If we put arrow slits in them – I mean, small horizontal slits, or cross-shaped ones to see better through them – then those weapons of theirs can't strike our wall-walkers."

Kadphises stroked his chin, frowning with interest. "Go on."

"Well, if we get the wood from Dalesman houses – smash the ones who are making the most noise, to teach them a lesson..."

* * *

><p>Eight Easterling soldiers marched down the street, halberds in both hands, driving a civilian work detail before them carrying wooden planks from a destroyed house.<p>

Several of the civilians had bruises on their shoulders or black eyes or missing teeth, from the slamming impact of a weapon butt or mailed fist. They bore their weight stolidly, but with a certain sullenness.

A few feet back from the window of his house, Elbert Wellson scowled at the chink of light and what it revealed.

The damn Easterners were tearing up the city, mistreating civilians... he'd hated the idea of opening the gates, everyone had, but there'd at least been the hope that the city would be _spared_ the chaos of a sack.

Now the halberd-men were giving orders that had to be obeyed, and quickly – at least three bodies testified to that – while the few enemy horse-men were taking the best of the wine and food of the city for themselves.

And as many young women as they could find, as 'entertainment'.

"Get away from there," his wife chided, fussing over the lunch-table.

He didn't respond for a long time, hands tightening. Then turned with an impatient movement, and sat.

"This is getting ridiculous," Elbert announced, as his wife put the bread and cheese on the table.

"I _know_ it is, dear." She sat heavily, and cut a slice of the cheese. "But what can _we_ do? You're going to get yourself conscripted into those gangs if you keep this up – they'll rip _our_ house down as well!"

Elbert sighed, and quickly downed some of the cheese himself.

"There might be something," he mumbled around the food. "I've been talking with Willem and Mahk, at the stables."

His wife looked lost for a moment. Then shook her head. "No," she said, pleadingly. "You can't – it'd be suicide!"

"And why would that be," Elbert asked, looking her straight in the eye. "How is living like this any better? In fear, that one day the easterlings will want something we have? Knowing that, in a few months, the siege will bite, and we'll all starve before _they_ open the gates?"

She looked uncomfortable.

"I know, 'bert," she replied, after a moment. "But _please_, don't do anything rash!"

"I won't," he replied, very softly.

* * *

><p>"What do we have?" Willem asked.<p>

"Forty-odd swords," Mahk replied. "Mostly stuff officers or militiamen left behind in their houses. I had them hidden in three different places. And... call it eighty or so polearms. I might be able to get another dozen or so."

"That many?" Elbert's eyes widened, very slightly.

"Butchers, tanners, a few farmers..." Mahk chuckled. "A lot of tools tradesmen use are long poles with sharp bits. Some of them are just scythes, but old Blake has been remaking a few of them on the sly. Turning the blades up."

Elbert nodded. Willem asked the next question. "What about the rest?"

"Butchers' knives," Mahk shrugged. "A few lumber axes. That's about it. Do we need more?"

Willem frowned. "I've got about fifteen men who know. All of them friends of mine – a few used to be archers, a couple of old swordsmen... More than that I can't be sure, of course, but I've sounded a good few dozen out very carefully. Most of them will agree."

"And what of spies?" Elbert pressed. "We have to be sure, my friends."

"I found a body in the street last night," Mahk contributed. "I asked around, and it seems the man had new Eastern coins in his pocket. He fell out of a window." A grin. "Twice."

Willem nodded. "Damn fool Tomas was. What good does coin do you in a starving city three months hence?"

"Will that alert them?" Elbert asked urgently.

"I doubt it," Willem answered. "He was pretty drunk, and I gave three of the coins to the barkeep at the Roused Goat – two doors down. It'll look like he got drunk off his arse with the gold and fell out the window onto his head."

"Still," Elbert said, frowning. "We might need to accelerate. Contact anyone you can – carefully!"

The middle-aged farrier gave a long sigh. "I need to go find Elizbet. The Eastmen who took her yesterday evening-" he paused, and made the gesture to ward off evil. "Well, she'll know what we need."

* * *

><p>"Interesting," Marek said softly. "Thank you."<p>

The crow nodded to him.

"Prince," he added, louder. "The men of Rhun are tearing down houses and building wooden shields over the ramparts."

"What does that mean for your rifles?" Bard replied.

"For the next few days, we can still try to snipe at patrols – though it will get harder." Marek shrugged. "After that, it'll be too hard. But it does give us an advantage, as well."

"Oh?" Bard invited him to continue, then blinked and shook his head. "No, I see. They can't fire over the walls so easily – or even see over them very well."

"That's correct." Marek paused. "Should we try a shoot on the gates?"

Bard was silent for a time. He stood, walked over to the map table, and examined it carefully.

By now, the army were in their siege camps. The horses were stabled away from the main accomodation area, and walls of countervallation ringed Dorwinion at a distance of about half a mile. The woodlots nearby hadn't vanished yet, but had shrunk severely with the demands of fortification and firewood and the hundred and one more mundane uses an army had for wood.

Supplies were adequate, for the moment. Riders had been sent upriver to Ilanin, and within a week or two barges would begin to float down the river with regular resupply – for which a jetty was being built out over the River Running. More interestingly, contact had been made with the dozens of small fortified towns that studded the Vale of Dorwinion, and fresh produce was coming in daily. Including some of the finest wines on Arda, half a bottle of which was waiting on the mantel for the conclusion of the day's planning session.

All this was in papers resting on the table. But Bard gave them only a short look, before moving them aside to cast an eye over the dispositions themselves - paying particular attention to the forces near the main gates of the town.

"No," he decided, eventually. "Not yet. Let's give them a few weeks to stew, first. Let a routine sink in."

* * *

><p>"Did you ask her?" Mahk began, as Willem entered the upstairs room.<p>

"Yes," Willem replied. "It was... not pleasant."

Elbert and Mahk winced. Willem's twenty-year-old daughter Elisbet had been the talk of the Merchant's Quarter for years – a girl known for her wit as much as for her looks, and more justifiably.

When she had married a young trader and the new couple had taken their first trip to Ilanin, hundreds of friends and family had seen them off at the docks. The trip wasn't long, and so she'd found time to stop by several times a year, often with stories of exotic peoples from far-off lands – dwarves from Eriador, elves from not just Mirkwood but also the lands west of the Misty Mountains, and even once a hobbit – and recipes or foodstuffs from just as far afield.

But evil chance had had them in town when the war came, and when her husband had been part of the militia contingent of the surrendered garrison, she had been badly scared by the Easterling presence and by what their victory meant for the Dale.

Then, two days before, she had been noticed by an Easterling captain and 'requested' for help bringing food up to the wall guards.

None of them could imagine what she had endured since. It probably said enough that she could only bear the presence of her own father for a few minutes at a time. Other men set her off in seconds.

"The wife and I managed to keep her calm long enough to get the information we desperately need," Willem elaborated. "Ten men in the tower on the first floor. None on the second – that's where the winch is. And the watch changes at midnight and every four hours."

Mahk counted under his breath. "Right. And the gatehouse central area?"

"She didn't know. Several men, though – and she heard something bubbling, but not where."

"Boiling water – or oil." Elbert gritted his teeth. "Well, can we do it?"

"It'll be close," Mahk hedged. "We couldn't hold it for long. But we _could_ do it – _if_ the Prince is ready to act."

The three men, two of them fathers and one a proud uncle, exchanged glances.

Willem broke the silence. "Two days from now. Two of the morning."

"I'll let my lot know," Elbert said, nodding.

* * *

><p>"Anything?" Marek asked, as a crow came down to land at the end of her scheduled patrol.<p>

With a flare of wings and an indulgent _caw_, she dropped out of the orange sunlight onto his outstretched hand.

"Nothing unusual," she replied. "Those shields are about half done. Patrols are starting again – but they're staying below the battlements for now."

"And seeing bugger all," Marek replied with satisfaction. "Anything else?"

The crow dipped her head. "There's a barge coming down the river – I saw it on the far northern sweep half an hour ago. Looks like it'll arrive at night."

"I'll let Bard know."

"Aside from that... nothing. Oh, the weather." With a glance skywards, the crow resumed. "Clouds coming in from the south-east – off the Sea of Rhun, by the looks of it, which means rain. Not great flying weather."

"I'm sure you'll manage," Marek smiled. "Thank you. Report to the mess for your meal."

"Just doing my duty." The crow shrugged, flipped a wing, and took off.

* * *

><p>Two hours after midnight, a gentle rain filled the northern night with the soothing sounds of water on stone. Rivulets sluiced off the tiled roofs of those houses prosperous enough to have them, pattering on the cobbles of the street, and made the few torches hiss and sputter.<p>

Elbert Wellson walked through the streets, holding his woollen cloak around him to ward off the damp.

The cloak had been a gift from his son late last year. Woven out of freshly cleaned wool just off the sheep, it still had the lanolin impregnated into the fibres that made water roll off it. He'd worn it on dozens of cold, rainy nights just like this one already, and hoped to wear it on hundreds more.

Not least because that would mean he'd have survived _this_ night.

He slipped into a doorway, and tapped twice on the door. A slit opened, examined him, and closed. Then the door opened with the silence of recently oiled hinges.

"Good to see you," Mahk said, nodding at him. "You're the last." As he spoke, he moved aside to let his friend into the front room of his house.

Elbert glanced up at the pendulum clock – it was ten past two already. "Sorry I was late. I had to avoid a patrol."

He looked into the room itself, seeing a dozen or so young men – usually relatives of his or at least one of the others – and maybe sixty older, often middle aged, men like him.

Men too old to be part of the militia call up. Men who had secure jobs and positions, who'd already given their service for their country in war, and who had served it in peace.

Men who now had to serve it in war again.

The air was rank with sweat – the inevitable result of so many men in such a small space. But looking at their faces, none of them were actually afraid, as such. Just – nervous.

"Everyone has a weapon?" he asked.

Those who had them indicated their sword hilts. The rest had polearms, knives, axes... all improvised or repurposed weapons, rather than the sleek and purposeful deadliness of a shortsword.

No matter. They could kill a man just as dead.

"Okay." He looked around again, catching men's eyes, and seeing them nod back. "It's about a minute's walk to the gate. We _walk_ – no sense making too much noise – and we head for the right hand gate tower. Make sure to let me do the talking."

"Once we're in, there's just four things we have to do. Hold the door to the tower – Willem, you do that. Mahk, you know how it works, you organize men to turn the winch – then smash it. Ulden, make sure they don't come at us from above. And me-"

He shrugged.

"All I've got to do is somehow let Prince Bard know we've seized the gate."

"Sounds a tall order," Ulden said quietly.

"I've got a trumpet." Elbert lifted his cloak, revealing the instrument secured by a piece of string running to his arm. "And – well, whatever happens, we can give him an open gate."

Mahk passed around a tray with mugs of hot spiced wine, and one by one almost all the conspirators took quick gulps. The fine wine, two bottles of a ten-year vintage, burned on the way down and settled into the stomach like a promise of summer.

"For the Dale," Mahk said softly, to a muttered chorus of agreement.

Elbert gestured to the door. "Now, follow me – _quietly."_

* * *

><p>Karenna warmed his hands by the fire.<p>

"Is it always this cold?" he asked, frowning.

"You must be getting soft!" his friend Ralen replied. "We're not even out in the wind!"

"Yet," Karenna grumbled. "When those wooden shields are built, we'll be right back out on the walls in the rain."

"You're too pessimistic these days, Kar," Ralen replied. "Enjoy it while it lasts!"

Karenna looked over at his friend. "Ral, last week I came within a hand-span of having my head blown off by a fire-bow. I don't want to go out there again!"

"Shut it, you two," their sergeant snapped, walking over from his chair to look out the arrow slit. "Nothing."

"Nothing, nothing, weeks of nothing." Ralen grinned slyly. "Hey, you want I should find another pretty thing for tomorrow night?"

There were mixed reactions to that. A few of the squad shouted their approval, some others smiled, and Karenna and the sergeant looked uncomfortable.

"Don't like to think about what might happen if the captain checked on us when that was goin' on," the sergeant commented.

Karenna's dislike was more nebulous. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image from two days ago out of his head – the look of pure, venomous hatred that a Dalesman had been giving him when he unexpectedly turned his head.

The rage had vanished into a carefully blank expression so quickly he wasn't certain of what he'd seen, but... it worried him.

A knock sounded on the door.

"I'll get it," Ralen volunteered, standing.

"Think it's the captain?" someone asked.

"Nah," Ralen replied, shrugging. "He's been in bed for hours – he's been up all day, or so I hear." The view-slit slid across. "Who is it?"

"Elbert, sir," a Dalesman's voice replied. "I've been sent with extra firewood."

"Hah, see?" Ralen shot a look back at Karenna as he unlocked the door. "They _do_ care-"

Ralen's hand lifted the latch, and the door creaked open a few inches. Then slammed open, knocking Ralen to the floor.

Karenna's mind spun as he tried to come to terms with the explosion of movement.

"_Damn_ it!" the sergeant shouted. "Attack! We're under-"

The first three Dalesmen came through the door in a rush, wielding unusual-looking polearms and trying to point them everywhere at once. A fourth came through behind them, looked the situation over for a moment, and punched the tip of his sword (where did they get a sword from?) through Ralen's throat.

The Rhun infantry needed to charge, to use the armour some of them wore to push forwards and swing the heavy door closed again.

But, in the grip of uncertainty, they didn't think. Under attack, they reacted – defensively.

Karenna siezed his halberd from the pile by the wall, raised it, turned it, and lowered it to point at the Dalesmen as they filtered into the room. The clatter of wood and iron told him that his squadmates were doing the same – and a curse told him that at least one had messed up.

By the time they were in formation, at least a dozen spears – or what he guessed were spears – were pointed at him, as well as several swords and tridents.

Then a particularly large man, wearing the outfit of a tanner, shouldered through the door. He carried a long, hooked implement which Karenna vaguely remembered was involved somewhere in the tanning process.

The Sergeant's cry for help was echoed elsewhere, and Karenna felt his heart leap with optimism. Help was coming!

Then the hook reached forwards, latched onto the prongs of his halberd, and twisted it so his grip weakened. Four more men took the handle of the hook, and with an almighty wrench they sent his weapon sideways – fouling the halberds of the rest of his squad.

And then the Dalesmen charged.

Karenna dropped the halberd, reached for his scimitar-belt, and slid the curved weapon free in time to parry the first blow. The second skirled off his blade, and he took advantage of the inexperience of his opponent to stab at their chest-

One of the spear-like polearms ripped along his bicep as it drove the scimitar home into the chest of his enemy. The pain was indescribable, and his arm fell limp, the tendons cut.

Another polearm jabbed for his face, past his flailing left hand. The edge crunched through bone, and then his world ended in a swirl of blackness.

* * *

><p>Elbert drove his knife into the throat of the last Easterling, sprattling on the floor as his body tried to outlive his brain.<p>

The corpse jerked, then sighed and was still.

Another of the Dalesman kicked the corpse. "Fuckers."

"No time for that now," Elbert began, then coughed, and wrinkled his nose at the smell of death.

"Mahk, the wrench. Willem-" his friend was already organizing a dozen men to heave the door closed again and lock it. "Good. Ulden, up, quickly!"

"On it, El." The big tanner saluted with a stolen scimitar, having ditched his hook, and hurried for the stairs as the last of Mahk's lot filed up.

Elbert felt dizzy for a moment, as the sudden release of tension hit him, and shook his head to try and clear it.

"Right," he said, mostly to himself. "Where's there a good window..."

"There!" a young man said, pointing to the arrow slit. Elbert walked over, pulling his trumpet out as he did so, and pulled the wooden cover aside.

A gust of wind blew in, carrying raindrops with it. Elbert shrugged his cloak a little tighter, and blew the trumpet with all his breath.

* * *

><p>"Did you hear something?" Ugbrag asked, frowning.<p>

"No," the sergeant replied, matching his frown. Then he stood, and turned towards the city. "Aule's forge! Sound the alert – the gate's opening!"

Ugbrag unslung his rifle, loaded a blank, and fired into the air.

"Merkan, stay here!" the noncom added. "Tell whoever shows up what's going on. Everyone else, follow me! Run!"

Ugbrag wrestled his rifle back to his shoulder, breaking into a run alongside the sergeant. "What's up, sarge?"

"Bugger if I know," the slightly older uruk replied. "But that's not a sally, and even if it is we've _got_ to get to that gate and keep it open!"

* * *

><p>Marek blinked, frowning into the cool darkness of his tent. "What in blazes... that was a gunshot!"<p>

He heaved the heavy winter bedclothes off, letting them fall to the canvas floor, and reached by trained reflex for the revolver to the side of his bed. "Tureg!"

The other Uruk's feet could be heard as he splashed up to the tent door. "Sir?"

"What the demondark's going on?" Marek struggled into his mail shirt over his nightclothes, then put his helmet on, picked up his webbing and slung it over one shoulder. "We didn't order an attack tonight!"

He snarled. "And I'll have the _balls_ of whoever thought he'd go off and glory-hound-"

"The gate!" someone shouted.

Marek's tirade chopped off, and he pivoted to stare for a moment at the brooding bulk of Dorwinion. There was a swirl of activity going on – torches, the hint of fires, and the thin sound of a trumpet attenuated by distance.

And, now that he listened, now that he squinted through the darkness and _looked_, it was obvious.

"Someone's opened the gate," he breathed. "Trumpeter! Sound _stand to_, then _advance at speed!_ Someone get me Iles, quickly! Messenger to Prince Bard – the gates are open; I don't know why; hurry whatever you have in support as soon as possible! My respects to him. Now go!"

The swirl of confused men in the camp began to cohere as the orders rolled out. Like magic, gawkers became riflemen, and squads gathered in front of their shared tents for a moment before setting off at the jog.

"Remember your ammunition, lads!" Marek bellowed into the night. "You can't fight worth beans without it!"

The trumpet call continued beside him, easily drowning out the sound from the city.

Iles woofed welcome as the handler led her up to him, then sneezed from the rain. Her huge head looked from him to the city.

"That's right, old girl," Marek confirmed. "We're off."

He raised one foot, braced it in the stirrup, and heaved himself into the saddle. His headquarters group – all mounted – cohered around him as they too mounted up.

"Bannerman – get those colours uncased! Messenger to the battery commanders – limber up the Anduins and rapidguns and catch us if you can, and mortars to maintain starshell light. I don't care about ammunition; just do it."

A spatter of mud announced one of his runners returning. "Sir, Prince Bard ordered full assault – all around the perimeter of the walls."

Marek grinned, teeth exposed. "Good. Now, forwards! Fast lope!"

* * *

><p>Elbert's eyes flicked back and forth, trying to keep track of everything at once.<p>

They'd got the gate open easily enough – it was _built_ to be moved quickly from here, it had to close at need or open for a sally – but the Easterling counterattack had come before they'd finished wrecking the equipment. It would be hard, but the Easterners _could_ close the gate once more.

Downstairs, there was the steady thudding of an improvised battering ram against the heavy tower door. It wasn't going to last forever, and when it fell the defenders downstairs would have to hold the Easterlings at the door – or retreat upstairs. To the winch-room.

His more immediate problem was that this third-story room was at the level both of the wall walk and the over-gate room. That meant he had to try to defend _two_ doors – and the Easterlings knew it.

Someone staggered back from the wall door, clutching at his face. "Aagh!"

"Stand _away _from the peephole!" he shouted, voice cracking in the middle. "There's too many archers out there now!"

Roan, the man who'd taken the arrow, fell backwards onto the floor in a lopsided sit-down and nearly curled over. Their medic – a doctor who'd joined in the plot – admonished his helper to keep pressure on a makeshift bandage and moved over to his newest customer.

"Let's see that..." the doctor said with a glassy detachment. "Looks like the arrow didn't quite go through cleanly... I can't pull it out now, it's barbed – it'll do more damage coming out. Get a pad, someone, and put it between his teeth."

The over-gate door thudded dully, then the sound of an axe began to sound.

"That door's not going to hold," Elbert noted. A thought struck him. "Someone – you, Merric, you're no good to us without a working right arm – get a torch, douse the gate workings in lamp oil and get it burning!"

Merric paused.

"_Go_, man! If they close that gate all this was for nothing and we're fucked anyway!"

* * *

><p>Ugbrag panted as his squad skidded to a halt in the shadow of the gate.<p>

"Fix-" the sergeant took a steadying breath. "Fix bayonets, lads. Load!"

There was a staccato clicking over the sound of the rain, as the socket bayonets went onto their slots and each man chambered a round.

"First in, lads. Forwards!"

Ugbrag took up a position on the left end of the line, nearest the open leaf of the gate. His rifle went up, searching for a target – and he found one quickly.

"Fire!"

_Bam_ went the rifles, and the press of Easterling infantry around the tower entrance recoiled. At a range of barely twenty metres, the bullets went through at least two men and sometimes three, dealing horrible wounds to the unprepared targets.

Eight uruks reloaded with focused speed, taking a step forwards.

"Ugbrag, Revest, Snago, you give us cover. The rest of you, with me!"

The sergeant and his fire team moved forwards, taking cover for a moment behind the open gate, reloaded as Ugbrag's own team levelled their rifles, then ran forward in the moment after the shots-

And a cascade of glutinous, yellow-ish liquid poured down out of the murder-holes in the gatehouse tunnel, drenching all five uruks. They screamed, raw pain driving their voices so loud it punished the ears, then collapsed.

"Fuck!" Ugbrag shouted, with an anger that surprised him. "Stay back, they've got boiling fucking oil!"

He reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired again. An arrow pattered down from the slits in the gatehouse, and he shot through the next time something moved behind them – producing a scream which made him feel savagely triumphant.

A splattering clatter approached him from behind.

"Private," a voice asked – a voice which made Ugbrag look around for a second, to confirm that _the colonel_ was right behind him. "Situation?"

"Gate's open, not sure why," Ugbrag related. "Guessing someone's in that tower, the Easterlings are trying-" BLAM. "-hard enough to get in." His voice had a slightly distracted quality to it as he reloaded automatically, sighted in and fired, reloaded... "Tossers in the gatehouse have boiling oil – lost the sarge and four other men finding that out."

He squinted through the rain that was drumming powder-smoke out of the air. "Aim for the men with the ram!"

The next volley punched out, hitting three of the men using the ram as they drew back for another blow. The torque and their suddenly dead weight sent the ram swinging sideways, to cries of frustration.

* * *

><p>An axe finally punched through the door.<p>

Elbert nodded to three men with altered scythes, crouched behind the tables they'd rigged up as barricades. "Ready..."

The axe blows came twice more, then stopped. An arrow whipped through the hole, glanced off the table edge and shattered on the wall.

Then weight hit the door, pushing the upper part so it bulged forwards and cracked ominously. The lower part held, aided by the heavy weapon rack pushed against it.

"Now!"

The three men rose to kneeling, and punched their polearms forward at the gaps forming in the door. A yell answered them, and the blades came back dripping with blood.

"Down!"

This time, four arrows came through. One stuck into the barricade, quivering with the shock of the impact. Two more missed entirely, clattering into walls. And one slashed across the scalp of a scythe-man, sending blood and hair falling to the floor.

A rattle of other arrows biting into wood told them that several hadn't been so accurate. It was hard to tell if that was good news or bad.

The axes hit again, orchestrated by someone on the other side to land their blows in tandem.

Elbert glanced around the room. Most of his men weren't wounded yet – the door had seen to that – but it wasn't much longer before the door gave way, and then it was going to be vicious and brutal. And probably quite short.

He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering Mari's hair on the day she married him. When they were young, and nothing in the world could sully that day.

_Well. I made my choice._

He readied his sword – taken from the weapon racks up here – and considered what to do.

"Everyone who's got a polearm, try to _trip_ them," he said in a low voice. "Make a pile in the door. Then those with knives stab anywhere you can see – eyes, hands, whatever."

Nods answered him.

* * *

><p>Marek eyed the gate for the third time.<p>

"_No_, sir," his second-in-command admonished. "You might make it through, yes. But you might not, none of the rest of us would, and what good is just you against half the bloody easterling army?"

"There's not more than a few thousand in there," he corrected absently, as he flipped the revolver cylinder back in and took aim. Not too long for a pistol bullet...

_CRACK._ An Easterling went down.

By now, more rifles were arriving, and a few brave uruks were getting right in close to the murder-holes and trying to shoot upwards to clear the gatehouse. But it was slow work, and several had already been surprised and taken an arrow to the chest or the face or the shoulder.

This close, firing straight down, the easterling recurve bows often went through chain-mail battledress with enough force to still wound or kill.

"With respect, sir," Tureg said with a pinched expression, "You may be able to score with a pistol at this range, but even with one revolver in each hand you couldn't kill them all."

"Well, how do _you_ propose we get in the bloody gate?" Marek asked. Iles caught his mood and snarled, muscles bunching and unbunching under him. "Quiet, girl," he added, soothing her with his off hand; she was spoiling his steady firing position.

"I... I don't know, sir," Tureg admitted. He winced as another arrow slammed an uruk almost to the floor, clutching at the shaft that had gone through his lip and the floor of his mouth. "But we-"

Trumpets blatted behind them. Not Isengard trumpets – the slightly different tones of Dalesman instruments.

Marek looked behind them, blinked, then tapped Iles in the flank. "Out of the roadway!"

The command group scattered, riding to both sides. The firing line paused in their methodical platoon volleys, then company signallers came to decisions and split the line at a particular company seam. The companies each side of that seam slid smoothly aside, like rolling gates, and a column of men moving at a fast trot pounded forwards through the gap.

"Who are they?" Tureg asked. "Are they going to-"

Without pausing, the column plunged forward into the gate tunnel. Arrows and boiling oil poured down upon them, then flaming torches, and a roil of fire erupted in the gap.

But the column kept coming. It took the losses, paid the price, and Marek could see that a lot of them were breaking through the gate. Swords slithered free of their scabbards, and a line of sword-and-shield men crashed into the Easterlings clustered around the tower base.

Unformed, focused on their task, they were completely unprepared for an attack by men who had just come straight through a rain of boiling oil. They broke, running for safety.

"The garrison," Marek whispered, realizing.

More oil poured down. There was another rifle shot from one of the uruks, a brief scream from _inside_ the gate house, and then orange light and smoke belched out of the windows.

The oil stopped coming, and a primal roar came up from the tail of the Dorwinion column. They began to run, clearing the gate faster still.

Marek's hands moved without conscious volition, holstering his revolver and drawing his saber. "Trumpeter," he said. "Sound _column of advance_."

A field gun rumbled up, wargs straining at the hitch. The gun captain glanced at his Colonel as he went past, receiving a gesture conveyed by a bob of the head.

"Third company, forwards!" Marek called. "Then gun number two! Come on, lads, into the town!"

"Blood and steel!" Tureg added. "Forward the second!"

Damning all further caution, Marek cantered forward to just behind the third company as they marched through the clearest path past the mess of corpses in the gateway. There weren't that many of them – most of the dead had run at least a little way before they lay down and burned – and behind him he could hear the gun wheels crunching over something best not thought about.

"Company, face forward! At a walk, forwards in firing line!"

The captain of the third was still hale, which was one reason he'd picked them. Under his shouted direction, the third company shook out into line and advanced, rifles ready.

There was a knot of easterlings at one entrance to the courtyard. They looked like they were recovering their mettle...

"Fire!"

Over a hundred needles of fire lanced forwards, sending men collapsing as if gut-punched.

"Second platoon, third squad, _out_ of line! Head left!"

The indicated squad moved back three steps, to not foul their comrades' firing lines, and then doubled over to the left edge of the line of advance.

Through the gap, the muzzle of an unlimbered Anduin field gun poked forwards. The crew spun the screws, adjusting the elevation with finicky precision.

"Ninety yards... juicy target," the gun captain said. "Firing!"

A field gun going off at less than five metres distance punished the ears. The malignant wasp-whine of cannister shot followed, and terminated in a sodden sound as it punched down the easterling infantry battalion.

Marek looked around. The other leaf of the gate was opening, now, and most of the rest of his regiment was coming through in good order. Elsewhere, banners waved on the parapet, seen by the light of torches. The towers were still mostly flying the Eastern banner, but Dale infantry were over in a dozen places.

Slamming volleys drew his attention back to third company. A number of horsemen had appeared around a winding bend in the main street, riding hard for them with scimitars glittering in the firelight. A banner, one that Marek recognized from the battle at the ford, hung wetly on a cross-pieced standard.

Another volley, another blast of cannister, and most of them went down.

Behind him, with a roar like a waterfall on stone, the allied army broke over the walls of Dorwinion and into the city beyond.

* * *

><p>"Last holdouts in here, sir," a captain reported.<p>

Marek looked up at the tower, from which a defiant Eye still fluttered in the dawn gloaming. The bulk of the wall loomed to his left.

Something went _whunnng_, and a ballista-bolt spat from one of the tower slits and skittered off the stone ten feet to his left.

Rifles crashed in answer, and forty rounds went through the tower slit.

Marek raised his glass, focusing. "It looks like the rounds did something pretty permanent to the ballista... can't quite tell, though."

"Hate to waste good men on them," Tureg mused. "And sir, _please_ stop going near enemy artillery!"

Marek shrugged. "I don't think it'll be necessary to waste good men on them." He nodded back up the street.

Tureg followed his gaze, and winced. "_Really?_"

"I doubt Brand will complain." Marek toed Iles, who stepped aside to let the Anduin gun rumble past.

Not too far past him, the gun unlimbered. Taking care, the crew rotated their piece and let the trails thump to the ground. The elevating screw spun with finicky precision, and then the gun fired a contact fuzed HE round.

The door erupted inwards in a cloud of smoke and wicked, hand-long shards of wood. Screams came distantly from the lower room.

"Load shrapnel, half-second fuze," Marek ordered. "Now, someone get a white flag. Let's see how long it'll take for them to see reason..."

* * *

><p>"Men," Prince Brand said from the dais. His gaze swept the ranks of Dalesman soldiers, who were fairly well in hand – unusual for an army that had been required to storm a fortification, but then this <em>was<em> a city of their homeland. "You have done me proud. We've marched down from upriver, fought an army equal to our own, and beaten it handily with relatively few casualties."

At least four thousand, though the final tally wasn't in yet. But it paled compared to the casualties the _enemy_ had taken.

"As such, I am issuing a donative of three months' pay." Cheers began, and he waved a hand. "Have fun in the city, lads, but remember-" the hand came down, cutting off the gathering noise. "-we came here to liberate it. Everyone here hates the Easterners as much as you do, and they've suffered through occupation."

The attitude of the troops seemed appropriately sober. Not that they'd have much opportunity to offend the locals, for the simple fact that they were hysterically grateful to their saviours. The problem was more likely to be fending off enthusiastic offers of drink and company.

"Dismissed."

The neat ranks dissolved into an ordered chaos, as the town watch – all newly raised from volunteers from the city itself – directed traffic out of the square.

After about ten minutes, only one block of men remained, with a single man standing before them. The sound of a spontaneous street party was already developing.

"Earl Dorwinion," he began again, nodding courteously to the young man standing alone. The youth was barely more than sixteen, his beard still wispy, but he stood steadily enough as his prince called on him. "I have need of men to guard the walls against enemy attack, and stand watch over our prisoners."

Thus missing the party.

"My Prince, the men of Dorwinion stand ever ready to do your bidding," the teenaged Earl replied. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, but he finished it gamely, and the men behind him slammed their shields on the ground.

Brand considered them. No need for a decimation – by his count, there were at least eight hundred Dorwinion men who'd never fight again as a result of their suicidal charge through the gates – and the new Earl seemed to have them well enough in hand.

"Four hundred picked men. See to it, Earl Dorwinion." Brand paused. "The rest may join the celebration. And could someone get the city's flag? I believe your men require a banner."

"At once, sir!" The earl's voice cracked again, and Brand carefully ignored his dampening eyes.

* * *

><p>"Fifty-five each," Tureg summarized, throwing the notepad down in front of his colonel. "That's after redistributing the rounds we found among the dead, as well. Artillery's a bit better off, but not much."<p>

Marek nodded, picking up the notes. "I see. So, we've got about enough for one more major action at most."

"That's about the shape of it – and one is really pushing it, sir." Tureg shrugged. "Should I order a ban on practice?"

"Probably for the best, at least until we've got some kind of reloading shop set up." Marek tapped his chin. "Still, I think we've hardly wasted them... I'll include a request for resupply as soon as practical in the next message home. And I will so advise Prince Brand that our regiment should not be considered combat effective until we can resupply, though we can defend the city well enough."

The two uruks contemplated that for a bit.

"Not a bad spring's work, I think," Marek added, with perhaps a hint of self-satisfaction.

* * *

><p>AN:<p>

Sieges are nasty business, especially for the attacker.


End file.
